The Tale Of The Mad Elf
by scriptophobic14
Summary: From the muck and grime of Denerim's Alienage rises an elf who will become a legend. An elf who will topple the pillars of Ferelden and defeat the Blight. Follow the journey through blood and ashes of Alexion Tabris, the Mad Elf.
1. The Tabris

"Now hold still, _da'mi_. This will sting." The little elven boy froze, fear and anticipation swirling in his icy-blue eyes. "Are you sure about this, dear?" The boy's father hung back, torn between stopping his wife and letting things progress.

"I knew I hit the bull's-eye when I called you 'cricket', Cyrion. You make too much unnecessary noise." The boy's mother put down her tools – a bowl of glowing liquid, a sharp needle, and a clean cloth – to face Cyrion.

"Trust me, cricket. We of the Tabris have perfected this." Silence hung between the two for a moment. Finally, Cyrion relented, scratching his honey-gold locks as he did so.

"Very well, Adaia. Do as you wish."

Adaia Tabris gave her husband a toothy grin before returning her gaze to their son. "Now, Alexion. Stay still. This will only hurt for a while."

Alexion nodded, his resolve strengthened. Adaia dipped the needle into the liquid before slowly putting it against her son's skin. Taking in a shaky breath at the sight of the glowing needle, a minty smell caressed Alexion's nostrils.

As the pinpricks began, the boy stopped himself from flinching away. He was a Tabris. A Tabris never quits.

* * *

Ten-year old Alexion sprinted towards his mother, the practice daggers light in his hands. In a burst of speed, he was inside her guard. He stabbed his daggers up, towards the exposed chest. But as quickly as he had taken the advantage, he had lost it.

Adaia blurred out of his sight. A moment later, the young elf received a sharp tap to the side of his neck. "First rule: never charge the opponent."

His mother's tone was chastising and stern, a far cry from her usual placid self.

"Again."

With a well-hidden sigh, the younger Tabris assumed the basic stance: hands loose at the sides, body held near the ground. As soon as he had readied himself, his mother _charged_. Surprised by the move, Alexion was defenseless as Adaia tapped him thrice on each side of his slender neck.

"We're rogues, dear. Rules don't apply to us." This time, Adaia was giving her most annoyingly flippant smile.

Grunting in response, Alexion tossed away the makeshift dummy dagger to a nearby garbage pile and marched away. It was already nearing sundown, the hour with no guards already drawing to a close. In that single hour, Alexion's shirt was already clinging to his body. In the dying light of the sun, the intricate tattoo on his face glows a soft white.

It had been five years since he had received his facial markings as was Tabris tradition. In those five years, his mother had taught him every day despite the suspicious looks they received from the neighbors. Thankfully, Cyrion was _hahren_, the leader of the Alienage. Without his influence, Alexion doubted they would have had the same freedom.

Sure enough, his mother had caught up with him, not a drop of sweat marring her fair skin. "Why so broody, _da'mi_?" Little Blade. As long as Alexion could remember, it was his mother's nickname for him. Just like his father was Cricket. Or Valendrian was Wrinkles.

"_Mamae_, why do we elves live like this?" Adaia raised an eyebrow at her son. "Like what, Alexion?"

"Like this!" Alexion spread his hands as far as he could, confident that they were alone in the Alienage clearing. "We live with these humans – these _shemlen_ – but they treat us as if we are animals! We're liked caged birds, Ma. We live and die in this Alienage. We can't even go outside unless we're servants of some _shem_! Why do we live like this? Why do we allow it?"

Adaia's eyes softened, a sad understanding replacing her joking mood. "You've been reading Valendrian's diary, haven't you?" Alexion nodded; eyes old beyond his years. "You'd read anything you get your little claws on, wouldn't you." With a sigh, Adaia knelt down, her eyes a darker blue than her son's, her markings a tad clearer.

"This, _da'mi_, is exactly why I do what I do. Someday, you will understand." "Why can't I understand _now_?" The elder Tabris gave a small chuckle.

"Too young, my sweet thing. The fruits have not yet ripened."

* * *

It was a night like any other night. Soris and Shianni, Alexion's cousins, were busy clearing tables at The Pearl, a famous brothel in Denerim. Cyrion was at home, sleeping away the fatigue brought on by working three jobs. It was like any other night, except for the two elves traversing the city's rooftops.

The two traveled in silence for some time, both wearing dark clothing and bearing a single dagger. Adaia and Alexion stopped in unison at a certain rooftop. The younger elf broke the silence. "You told me that I would be completing my training tonight, _Mamae_. What needs to be done?"

Alexion was fourteen now, his gangly limbs and too-slender body hiding an abnormal strength, his honey-blond hair falling carelessly to his shoulders. In the moonless night, the markings of the Tabris shone an eerie white. The curves and swirls on the right side of their faces seemed almost alive. "Do you remember the tale of the _elvhen_'_s_ downfall?"

Adaia glanced at her son, the steel in her eyes fear-inducing. "Of course, Ma. We were once immortal, untouched by time. Our lands sprawled throughout the entire known world. But the _shemlen _arrived from beyond sea, quickening us to the point of mortality. Soon after, we lost both our longevity and our home. We were enslaved by the humans until we were freed by Andraste – the Prophet of the Maker – at the behest of Shartan, leader of the rebelling elves. For a time, we lived as a proud people, broken but undefeated. But soon enough, we were subjected to another slavery. The Alienage."

"Good. But do you know which Alienage we of the Tabris hail from?" Adaia's tone was grim. Alexion opened his mouth to make a witty quip, but shut it at the look Adaia gave him.

"No. I don't."

"We hail from Tevinter, land of dark magic and slavery. We were once the servants of those who worship Andoral, Fourth of the Old Gods." Alexion was dumbstruck, at a loss as to which revelation was more shocking. That he came from a line of Tevinter slaves; or that said lineage was closely intertwined with the Old God of Slavery and Chains.

"Wha– What does this have to do with tonight, Ma?" Without hesitation, Adaia drew her weapon. It was Fang, his mother's favorite blade. It was of intricate design that Alexion could not identify until now. _So that is what a Tevinter blade looks like_.

"_Lin._" Adaia whispered the elvish word lovingly.

Blood. The honor of the Tabris demanded the blood of those who would enslave, those who would place chains upon the _elvhen_. Nodding in affirmation, the young elf drew his dagger. Tonight, they would exact the payment. Tonight, the fruit was ripe.

* * *

The funeral was a grim one, attended by family and few friends. Adaia was not popular among the elves of the Alienage, her quicksilver temper and confident bearing oft mistaken for arrogance. Staying apart from the measly throng of mourners, Alexion wore a loose white shirt and britches. He held himself gingerly, careful not to aggravate the wounds inflicted on him last night.

At the thought, the blonde elf shut his eyes, the memories of his failure crashing down in relentless waves.

_Screaming. A killing blow botched. Shouts for the guard, any guard! Mamae pushing him into the_ _nearest shadow. Cudgels slamming against the side of her head. Humans- dirty shemlen, all of them! – crowding her fallen form, kicking and stabbing and_ _screaming oh Maker the screaming. The dagger. His mother's dagger. Fang picked up by one of the humans. Pasty skin, aquiline nose, slicked-back hair_ _unbecoming._

Alexion began to shake uncontrollably, shivers escalating into full-blown quaking. "Son?"Cyrion touched the younger elf's shoulder, his voice tinged with sad concern. "Alexion, are you all right?" The shakes were gone as quickly as they came, Alexion becoming still as a statue in a matter of moments.

It took some shaking before Cyrion could get his son's attention, but as soon as he did, the elder elf flinched. Gone were the shining pools of ice-blue innocence that were in Alexion's eyes. The gaze that captured his was that of a dead man, a film of apathy covering the younger elf's eyes. "Son… Is everything fine?" Alexion cocked his head at Cyrion, as if regarding a faraway cloud. "Yes. Yes, it is." "Your mother, they didn't find her body. Alexion, what happened last night? We were barely able to fix you up once we found you."

Cyrion tapped the bandages hidden underneath Alexion's loose clothing, hoping to snap his son out of whatever trance he had put himself him. Instead, the wounded elf raised an eyebrow at the gesture.

"_Ego quod docet humilitatem respexit, et viam mortis_." The haughty cadence of Tevinter Arcanum sounded hollow on his son's lips.

With that, Alexion went inside their ramshackle house, leaving Cyrion to return to Soris, Shianni, and Valendrian by himself. _I am failure. Adaia told me the answer to that long ago. It seems as if Adaia has failed you in this, my son. The fruit is still not ripe._ Inside his home, the last Tabris held Fang in a death grip, unbidden tears streaming down his face.

* * *

_da'mi – elven for 'little blade'_

___Ego quod docet humilitatem respexit, et viam mortis. – I am what teaches humility, respect, and death._

___elvhen – elves_

___hahren – elven for 'elder'_

_lin - elven for 'blood'_

___mamae – elven for 'mother'_

_shem – derogatory elven term for 'human'_

___shemlen – elven for 'quickling'_


	2. The Almost Templar

Redcliffe. The large arling seated upon the western shores of Lake Calenhad was solemn in its silence. Home to the noble family of the Guerrins and the place of many battles for Ferelden's independence, some believed that the scarlet of the cliffs was caused by the sheer number of blood spilled by both Ferelden freedom fighters and Orlesian chevaliers.

In spite of – or maybe because of – such tales, Redcliffe has grown in influence and largesse ever since control has been wrested from the Usurper King's grasp. The very name itself stirred hateful sneers from the Orlesians, who were once Ferelden's overlords and invaders.

Two hooded figures made their way towards the imposing silhouette of Redcliffe Castle. "Halt! Who goes there?" Stationed along the castle gate were two guards, shields and chestplates bearing the symbol of the Guerrin family: a stone tower perched atop a rocky red cliff.

The taller of the two hooded men stepped forward, procuring a letter from within the folds of his robes. "Surprise visit to Arl Eamon Guerrin." The older of the guards accepted the note dubiously.

After a summary inspection of its contents, he addressed the men brusquely. "I'll need to see your faces, sers. Can't be too careful, what with Orlesians being spotted in the country as of late." The smaller hooded figure sucked his teeth disapprovingly, moving to get past.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid." The younger guard, a young man named Arcus, met the man halfway, hand already on his sword's hilt.

"Don't try something you'd regret, _ser_." The hooded man snickered humorlessly before allowing the young man to catch a glimpse of his face. The younger guard's face slackened into a look filled with reverence and no small amount of fear.

"I-I… Apologies, milord! Do-does that mean that –" Both Redcliffe soldiers chanced a glance at the tall hooded man, who was already moving towards the castle gates.

"What do you think, lad? Now open that gate before I skewer the both of you!"

* * *

"So, that's him?"The tall hooded man frowned. "What's the matter, erm, my friend? Is Alistair not to your liking?" Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe, moved forward to call out to the young boy but was stopped by the man.

"No, no. It's not that. It's just that… it is strange."

"Strange?" The arl was confused, and looked at Alistair as he worked. The boy was currently helping out the servants, carrying baskets for the younger ones not used to such heavy labor.

Even though the balcony the man shared with the arl was far from the training fields where Alistair toiled, the resemblance between the two was uncanny.

At seven years of age, the boy was strangely waifish. Short pale blond hair. Lightly tanned skin. A voice that carried over large distances.

Even as the child kept shouting for his reward of cheese – and with this the hooded man's companion stifled a chuckle – anyone with an eye for leadership could see it. The quiet aura of certainty clung to the young child.

"I see what you mean. The boy could be quite useful when he's not running around making a ruckus." The arl observed with an uncharacteristic sneer. The man pinned Eamon with a blank stare, making the arl backtrack quickly. "Forgive me. It is not my place to say such things."

"Forgiven, Eamon. To speak truthfully, sometimes I think that I have done too little to fix my mistakes." The man sighed tiredly, unseen burdens weighing heavily on his head. In the background, he could hear one of the maids chasing down the young Alistair, who somehow managed to unlock the mabari cages by accident.

_Mistake? Is that what you call it, then? _

The arl felt his temper rise, yet fought to tamp it down. He could not afford a scene, not with the way things were. All that was required was to make through this visit, and then things would be back to normal.

Eamon looked sideways to his friend, the shrewd machinations of his politician's mind already working furiously. At first glance, accepting this man's child was a show of friendship, of undying loyalty and trust. But scratch the surface, and one can see that Arl Eamon was unwittingly handed the tool to further himself and his family name.

"I do not wish to overstay my welcome here. Dear friend, if you will lead the way?" The hooded man was already on his way to the stables by the time Arl Eamon caught up with him.

Plastering yet another oily smile upon his face, the arl questioned the man conspiratorially. "So soon, dear friend? Do you not wish to meet the boy? To have a few words with him yourself?" Seeing the man shake his head, Eamon pressed on. "Then what use is your visit here?"

The man froze mid-step, and Arl Eamon wondered whether he had misjudged the security of their tenuous reunion. "Did I… say something wrong?" The man shoved his hands into his pockets, pulling out a golem doll and an amulet of exquisite design.

_Probably Orlesian. Why would he be carrying such a_ _thing? _

With a brusque cough, the man placed the two items into the arl's hands. "Give it to him. The doll was mine when I was a lad. The amulet… is his mother's. I had planned to give it to him myself, but I… I just _can't_. Farewell, Eamon."

And with that the man made his way to the stables, his shorter companion a silent shadow. Arl Eamon knew better than to give chase to his old friend. Such formalities were long abandoned between the two. Rarely had he seen the man show any slip in control, but when he did, it was few and far between. The pain in the man's voice when he spoke of Alistair was so raw – so heart-wrenchingly desperate – that it would have made no difference if he had torn out his beard and screamed out to the heavens.

Arl Eamon felt his heart grow heavy, but schooled himself. He must do what needs to be done for his oft-ignored family. As soon as he received news of the hooded man's departure, he called out to his manservant.

"Get that brat out of the training fields and punish him accordingly. I won't let ideas of grandeur be stuck in his dirty little head."

"Yes, Your Grace." The wrinkled serf moved to obey, but was held in place by the arl's hand.

"And give him these. Make sure that he doesn't scatter them all over the floor when he sleeps in the stables tonight." Arl Eamon's fleshy face curled up in disdain.

_Forgive me, my friend_.

* * *

Alistair winced as the roar of the crowd washed over him. It seemed as if the entirety of West Hills had come out, and then some. "Not that it's something to be proud of." The blonde muttered under his breath.

Unlike his former home of Redcliffe, the arling of West Hills was at the southernmost end of the country, far removed from the rest of Ferelden by leagues upon leagues of Maker-damned _forest_.

"You say something, _bastard_?" _Of course, I'd best not forget my lovable brothers and sisters._ Gnashing his teeth, Alistair met the haughty stare of the bane of almost his entire life.

_Rylock_.

Surrounded by her usual gang of stuck-up noble sons and Andrastian fanatics, the best Templar Initiate of their generation had it out for the blonde since his first day in the Chantry.

_ What's worse, Rylock's a girl!_

"Nothing, Ser Rylock. Just couldn't help but notice how extremely _lucky _I am to have the _pleasure _to look upon you today." Like always, Alistair used sarcasm to the best of his advantage, the venom protecting him where rank and parentage couldn't.

To his surprise, the female Templar Initiate blushed furiously at his sardonic drawl before shoving him back. "Watch your mouth, lech!"

_What did I do now?!_

"Now, now, my fellow Initiates. We can't be fighting in front of the audience, now can we?" Ser Otto, a local of West Hills and one of Alistair's few friends, stepped between the two.

As the younger son of a prominent noble family, he commanded respect from Rylock and her crew, who – by all accounts – were of lower birth than he. Rylock growled, but stepped back nevertheless. "One day, bastard. When Otto isn't there to save your skin."

"Oh, I'm _shaking_ in my boots." Alistair knew he was better than Rylock in single combat, but was well aware that her ragtag team of bootlickers would happily gang up on him, given the chance.

"Don't worry, Ali my boy. I'll get her for ya." Carrol, one of the best and brightest minds among the Initiates, threw an arm around the blonde.

"What are you planning to do _now_, Carrol?" Despite his brilliance, Carrol was repeatedly held back from graduating into a full-fledged Templar because of his tendency for mischief. Often, he would brag about his exploits outside the barracks –_And into the women! , _he would say – where they lived. If not for the switch marks on his back, no one would have believed him.

A trumpet blared, long and obnoxious, signaling the start of the tournament. At the end of every year, the best among the Chantry's pool of Templar Initiates would be picked to battle amongst themselves as tribute to Andraste.

This year being West Hills' turn to host, some of the Chantries declined the invitation. Whether it was because of the distance of the trip or West Hills' reputation as the worst training ground for would-be Templars, Alistair did not care.

_The less I have to fight, the better_. Oddly enough, Alistair barely managed to be picked as the last man for his arling's Initiate batch. Looking up at the nobles' bleachers by chance, all thoughts of his bad luck slipped from Alistair's mind.

Eamon had come.

* * *

"Is that _him_?" Arl Eamon arched an eyebrow at his wife's tone. He had expected Isolde to be surprised, disbelieving – repulsed, even! – but never had he anticipated to hear a flicker of attraction when speaking of Alistair. _Orlesians and their fickle standards! Bah! And she accuses _me _of promiscuity?_

Putting aside his wife's fickle tendencies, Eamon could see why Alistair would elicit such a response. Sent to the Chantry when he was ten, Alistair had spent all of his life in training to become part of the Templar Order, a group of Chantry warrior-priests dedicated to serving the will of Andraste's Chantry. _If guarding and hunting down filthy mages is what one calls servitude, then who am I to protest?_

Because of this, the malnourished wisp of a boy had grown up to be a physically impressive specimen of Templar. A full handspan taller than the rest of his brethren, Alistair drew attention from both man and woman alike.

"That is the biggest damn Templar I've ever seen."

"I wonder if he's a natural blonde?"

"Maker, I'd love to Smite _him_."

Whispers began rippling even amongst the gathered nobility, making the arl's head throb with worry._ Maker, how do I keep this boy from getting noticed? Isn't throwing him to the back end of Ferelden not enough to keep him out of sight?_

A cough drew the attention of Arl Eamon to Gallagher Wulff, Arl of West Hills and suspect behind Alistair's participation. Hiding a grin behind his hand, the battle-scarred noble ignored Eamon's baleful glare, secure in the fact that he was flanked on both sides by his equally marred sons.

_The fool probably thinks _he _should have recognized the boy. That stubborn head of his is what got him booted out here in the first place. Fool._

The trumpet sounded, signaling the contestants to take their places near the makeshift arena. For a moment, Alistair looked up at Eamon and scowled. The expression was foreign on his ex-ward's face, twisting it into something dark and angry.

"This ought to be interesting." The arl leaned forward to rub his palms together, ignoring the sudden shaking of his hands.

* * *

"I yield!"

Alistair stopped his advance, gasping heavily for air as he did so. It was the third round of the tournament, and the fatigue was weighing down on them all. Relaxing, he bent down and helped his bested opponent – Ser Wesley Vallen – to his feet.

"Your technique is brutally simple yet frighteningly effective, Ser Alistair. It would be an honor to serve beside you in the future." Wesley grinned, battered but gracious in defeat.

"It's just Alistair. And yes, to you as well." Yet again, the small crowd roared in approval. So far, Alistair had won the admiration of the spectators with his prowess and sportsmanship. Though not the most skilled of the Initiates, there was something that made the people cheer for him; an innate charm dampened by self-deprecation.

_Probably must be because of my charming personality, if bashing someone over the head with a shield can be called charming._

"The victor, Templar Initiate Alistair!" The officiator droned the announcement in a dry monotone, obviously unimpressed with the young man's showing. The fact that Alistair regularly played pranks on him in years long past served to explain such behavior.

Retreating to the victor's side of the arena, Alistair noticed that almost all of the remaining contestants were from the West Hills batch. Ser Otto and Rylock leaned against the wooden fence encircling the arena, unscathed. Carroll was busy chatting up a dour blonde named Cullen: the only participant from Denerim.

"So, the bastard's luck holds then." Rylock seemed to have recovered from her earlier exchange, her stance arrogant and certain once more. "Done playing with your boy toy, _Ali_?"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Rylock, just because your goons laugh at your jokes doesn't mean they're _funny_."

"Tell that to your golem dolls."

"Hey! They're action figures!" Ser Otto bit back a laugh as he stepped between the two.

"Brother, sister. This is not the time for petty infighting. We do not want the people to see the new Templars as weak, immature children, do we not?" The handsome Initiate smiled, the sunlight glinting off his porcelain skin.

_Leave it to Otto to keep the peace._ As the eldest among the Initiates of West Hills, the noble-born Otto took it upon himself to act as the voice of reason, stopping any violent altercation with soft words and calming smiles. His manners were the least of the reasons as to why he was so popular with the womenfolk. The man looked more like a courtesan than a warrior!

"I believe it is your turn to fight, Sister Rylock." Alistair grinned at the red blush Rylock sported once Otto turned his attention specifically to her. Juvenile though it was, he couldn't resist making kissy faces as Rylock shoved past him. It was only when the fight began that he noticed who she was facing.

"By the Maker, is that _Carroll_?"

Immediately, Otto's face dropped into a worried frown. "I believe so, Alistair. Do you think there's any chance she'd go easy on him?"

_"Oi, Rylock! You got your good luck kiss from Otto yet?!" _Carroll's jeer rose above the crowd's noise.

"Not a chance in the Void." Alistair groaned as the slaughter began.

* * *

No matter how fast Carroll was, he simply stood no chance against the fury that was Rylock. Her sword struck in flourishes, hitting the man in awkward angles. "Hey, take it easy, Ry? Is this because I didn't dance with you at the last – _Ow, Maker!_" Carroll barely blocked a vicious shield bash, the force knocking him back several paces. Unmoved, Rylock attacked yet again.

It was nothing short of a miracle that Carroll managed to survive the initial assault from West Hill's top Templar Initiate. Thin sword wounds marked the spots where Rylock slipped through his defense. The standard-issue Initiate armor he wore was already showing signs of denting. But still he continued hurling taunt after taunt, apparently intent to die at the hands of the furious Rylock.

"Has he gone mad? I think we should put a stop to this." Alistair moved to signal officiator, only to be blocked by Ser Otto. Glancing down at the noble, he saw Otto shake his head.

"I think this will be finished soon enough. Patience, Brother Alistair." Grunting, the blonde stepped back.

_C'mon, Rylock old girl. One more string of attacks ought to do it. _"That all you can do, Rylock? Why don't we go to the inn later and see if you can do better on your back?" Rylock froze, and then let loose a maddened war cry. _Gotcha. _Carroll knelt down, emptying his mind as Rylock rushed him.

"**Rah!**" Blue energy surged from Carroll's core, the cold _nothing_ of anti-magic coating the Initiate's blade in a small sheet of flame. Rising from his kneeling position, Carroll unleashed the might of his Holy Smite at Rylock's open form. Though not strong enough to strip a mage of his connection to the Fade, the attack managed to stun Rylock long enough for Carroll to touch the tip of his blade under her chin.

"I win, darlin'."

"Damn, Carroll! That was genius! I didn't know you could use anti-magic already." Alistair gushed as he helped the limping victor back to the victor's circle.

"I can't, actually. Snuck in a bit of lyrium into the system 'fore I faced Miss Stoneface over there. Just keep your mouth shut about it, aye?" The blonde looked shocked at Carroll's confession, but nodded his assent nevertheless before handing him over to Ser Otto.

"And now, the penultimate battle in our tourney. Templar Initiate Alistair of West Hills will be matched against the pride of Denerim: Ser Cullen!"

* * *

Alistair rolled his shoulders experimentally as he assessed the man before him. Unlike him, Ser Cullen already sported a great number of wounds. But his opponent seemed no worse for the wear despite this, a fiery calm replacing the cold expression he wore while being accosted by Carrol.

"Well, uh, good luck to us both then?"

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written."

_Alriight, then._

As the bell sounded, Cullen advanced fearlessly into Alistair's range as if he were facing a _maleficar _instead of a fellow Initiate. Unnerved by the man's aggression, the blonde Templar Initiate backed away, making sure to keep his shield aloft. _Clang!_ Steel met steel as Cullen shoved his shield against Alistair's in a contest of strength. Alistair shoved back, mildly surprised at the force Cullen wielded. _Seems as though he's still got some kick left in him then._ Fairly certain that he had the measure of the man's strength, Alistair set out to test his skill.

The Templar Initiate lacked the nimble quickness of Carroll, the skilled parry-riposte of Ser Otto, and the Orlesian flourishes of Ser Rylock. Because of his status as an unrecognized bastard, Alistair was often passed over in favor of those Inititates with families that would bring coin or clout to the West Hills Chantry. Lack of strict supervision and favoritism meant that aside from the required curriculum and teachings of the Chant of Light, he soon became the most self-taught of Initiates.

And it reflected in the way he fought. There was no reservation in his movements; no teasing jab or feint. Each slash was meant to maim or kill; the shield more of a weapon than a defensive tool. Cullen, who had been trained strictly on the Templar belief that defense was the best offense, was soon overwhelmed by the heavy attacks. Alistair struck Cullen's shield with the pommel of his sword followed by his shield's edge, numbing the Initiate's arm. Cullen responded with a stab at the blonde's legs, only to have Alistair bat it away with ease.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the _just_." Cullen gritted out the last word as Alistair delivered a nasty strike that disarmed him, sending his sword clattering to the ground. Still he attacked, using two hands to wield the shield clumsily.

"Hey, hey! Aren't you going to stop?" Alistair, who was already expecting Cullen to yield, yelped as the shield clipped him on the shoulder. A manic glint in his eyes, Cullen continued swinging the shield with wild abandon.

Alistair ducked under a wild swing and brought up his own shield, knocking Cullen's only weapon out of his grasp. The man froze, as if unsure what to do. "You're unarmed already, Ser Cullen. I think you should yield."

Cullen grimaced. "Those who oppose thee.." A blue aura enveloped the Initiate. "… shall know the wrath of **heaven!**"

Cullen ran towards Alistair, his long legs eating up the distance. "You have _got_ to be kidding me. Don't say I didn't warn you." Alistair nodded once to the officiator before taking a calming breath.

_In… and __**out.**_

Where Carroll's was a candle and Cullen's was a fire, Alistair summoned anti-magic that was not unlike firestorm. The blue flames burst from non-existence, snuffing out the opposing anti-magic in a whoosh of power. Alistair closed his eyes, relishing momentarily in the feeling of emptiness.

And then, he **roared**.

The war cry, coupled with uncommonly strong anti-magic, knocked Cullen clean on his back and even washed over Ser Otto and Carroll in the victor's circle. Putting his hands on his hips, Alistair blew out a tired breath. "That should do it then. Good ser?" He glanced hopingly at the officiator, trying his best to ignore the awed shouts and cheers from the thoroughly impressed crowd.

A twitch from the laid-out Cullen caught Alistair's attention. "I… shall not fear the legion. Should… should they set themselves… against me."

* * *

Arl Eamon held his wife's hand in a death grip, deaf to Isolde's protests. His plans were in ruins. Not only did Alistair turn out to be arguably the most powerful Templar of his time, but had stirred up a greater scandal by forfeiting after a shouting match with the officiating Templar.

_"What do you want me to do, beat him till he cries for his uncle? Sod that and this tourney!" _

"Maker, what have I done." Eamon could feel the grey in his hair multiply threefold. What he did not see was a grinning Commander of the Grey named Duncan slipping out of the crowd in pursuit of his newest recruit.


	3. The Wilder

Deep in the Korcari Wilds, a young girl runs. She dashes from tree to tree, soundless footfalls leaving little mark on the damp earth. But she is no village whelp lost in the southern swamplands of Ferelden. Her too-large robe – dark violet and streaked with dirt – mark her as a native of the Wilds. Were it not for her immaculate white skin and unnaturally golden eyes, she would have passed for a Chasind. As it was, she could not have been mistaken for the primitive barbarians who claimed residence in the Korcari Wilds.

On and on the young girl ran, unbridled joy shining brightly from her cherub face. In her hand was a golden mirror that glinted in the dim light of the swamp. Eventually, the surrounding greenery grew darker, the trees becoming leafless and gnarled while foul-looking plants and fungi sprung up from the oddest nooks and ends.

But still the girl delved deeper into the swamp, bare feet finding purchase in the treacherous moistness of the inhospitable terrain. Despite the hostile appearance of the area, she seemed unfazed and unmoved by what would normally give the hardier of men pause.

Morrigan had finally reached home.

"Mother, mother!" In her excitement, the child had forgotten to clean herself before approaching the hut. Morrigan had not even reached the threshold when a tiny rock zoomed towards her head. With a surprised yelp, the girl ducked, barely dodging the speeding projectile.

"How many times must you forget to look after yourself, Morrigan? I will not stand for my daughter looking like a mabari had dragged her through the mud."

Morrigan's mother leaned on the hut's doorway, looking over her daughter with cool disdain. "I'm sorry, mother. I did not mean to forget your lesson. But 'tis on the rarest of occasions that I get a trophy such as this!" Morrigan felt a grin creep up on her face and did her best to quench it. Her mother was anything but patient, and Morrigan did not wish to ruin her discovery by irritating her.

So, instead of telling a story of how she had stolen from a passing noblewoman's carriage using the spells her mother had taught her, the young mage simply presented her mirror. Her mother's face lost all emotion, and Morrigan gasped. She knew how to handle her mother's sarcastic barbs and – when she behaved particularly foolishly – angry rants. But she was not familiar with this kind of reaction, and she was frightened all the more because of it.

The mirror rose slowly into the air, assisted by her mother's unseen magic. Morrigan gulped, torn between rushing to reclaim her beautiful trophy and staying still like a good daughter. Years of conditioning made sure that she chose the latter.

"Morrigan, did you need help getting this… mirror?" Her mother's voice was smooth. Calming, even.

Not trusting her voice, the girl shook her head. Suspended in the space between the two mages, the mirror began rotating enticingly. It felt as if Morrigan's mother was waving it in front of her face, daring her to take it for herself. Morrigan was still as stone.

"It is most beautiful, daughter of mine." Despite herself, Morrigan felt hope bubbling in her chest. Maybe mother was not angry. Maybe she approved of Morrigan's actions. Maybe…

_Crack._

The mirror shattered into numerous shards but stayed in place, held together only by her mother's spell. Morrigan felt tears spring into her eyes, but did not dare wipe them off for fear of what her mother might do.

"Beautiful. And yet, useless." Her mother's voice had emotion now. Derisive, venomous emotion. "What good is beauty when there is no purpose? Vanity is one thing I will not allow you to exercise, child. If you wish for beauty, then the more fool you. Find usefulness instead. There is beauty in things useful to you."

Morrigan's mother approached her, tattered brown dress worn like a queen's finest robes. "A body is beautiful when masterfully used. A mind is beautiful when it is honed by knowledge and wisdom. Our _gifts _are beautiful when we command the world – our fellows! – with but a simple thought." Golden eyes, the exact same shade of Morrigan's, shone with conviction and madness.

"Your… _mirror_, my sweet daughter?" Morrigan flinched at the condescending tone in her mother's voice. "Is vanity you could well do enough without." Her mother smiled then, as the spell imploded on itself, sending incredibly small shrapnel of what once was Morrigan's mirror flying.

The girl winced as some of the glass scratched her skin, the wounds deep enough to draw blood. Not surprisingly, her mother was unscathed by the explosion of gold and glass, though a few bits of it were caught in her hair. Ignoring the pain from her injuries, Morrigan focused on the color of her mother's hair.

She stared at it as the tears streamed down her face. _I am a fool. _She did not allow a sound to escape her pale lips. She did not wish for any more punishment from the mother she loved and hated with all her heart. _I'm sorry, mother. _ Both women simply gazed at each other. Her mother idly looked at the blood welling from her wounds. _I won't do it again._ Morrigan looked at her mother's hair.

It was black lined with streaks of grey.

* * *

_Slowly, carefully. Let the Fade seep into your skin and bathe you with the strength to shape life to your will. _Morrigan had her eyes closed, breathing in the slow and even manner her mother had taught her. Upon each intake of breath, the amount of power she drew from the Fade grew, up to the point that she was already giving off waves of arcane power. The azure mist cascaded off her head and shoulders, the smell of captive lightning overpowering the swamp stench she had grown accustomed to.

"Girl, what do you think you are doing?"

Caught off guard, Morrigan lost control of the magic she held. Freed from her grasp, the blue mist turned violent, stinging her entire body as it surged for release. "Most shameful." Before any harm could come upon her, Morrigan felt an incredible will take hold of the wild magic and dismiss it with just a flick of its whim. Morrigan opened her eyes.

And saw her mother chuckling silently at her. Hot shame filled her chest. "Hello, mother."

"What spell were you planning to cast, my dear, that required you to draw such an amount from the Fade?" Morrigan's mother walked up lazily to her, the once-white dress already turned brown from years of wear and tear. There were no more strands of black in her hair, for it had been many years since the incident with the shattered mirror.

In those years, Morrigan had grown. Keeping her mother's lesson against vanity close to her heart, she had eschewed fussing over herself at every opportunity, instead preferring to keep herself as neat as possible. But there were times that she lingered at a puddle's edge, entranced by what reflected back at her.

In those times, she saw a beautiful young woman with alabaster skin and glowing yellow eyes. She saw the violet robe, once too large for her childhood self, clinging to her like a second skin. She noticed, with clinical interest, how well-endowed and shapely the woman was. But in the back of her mind, a niggling thought repeated a single line whenever she admired the woman in the puddle: _You look so much like your mother, dear. _Thus, even though Morrigan sometimes stayed to stare at her reflection, she never left with happy thoughts.

"I-I was… simply practicing a spell you… taught me, mother." Her voice, usually brimming with confidence, fell to a timid whisper whenever Morrigan spoke to her mother. A grey eyebrow arched in response.

"Oh? And what spell would that be, my ever-so-studious daughter? Surely you do not wish to call the attention of those Templars behind you just for the sake of simple practice, do you not?"

Morrigan turned around, half-certain that her mother spoke to her in jest. The sight of three Templars, gutted and hung from a faraway branch, told her otherwise. "I… did not notice." Her mother laughed; every cackle a blow to the young witch's pride.

"Of course you didn't. It was either the Templars or the Fade itself that would kill you." Seeing the look of confusion on Morrigan's, her mother went on. "No matter how powerful a mage is, there is a limit to all of us. We call that threshold, that limiter, as mana. And you were on the verge of depletion, daughter. Tell me, how did you feel before I interrupted your _practice_?"

Morrigan frowned, thinking back on the moments before she had been caught red-handed by her mother. "'Twas a feeling I had not been accustomed to in weaving spells. It felt as though I were becoming transparent, as if I could step into the Fade itself if I so desired." She chose not to speak of the feeling of ecstasy coursing through the fiber of her being, the half-dead sensation of coming back to a world mundane and common.

"And step into the Fade you shall. For most mages, depleting mana would lead to a quick and pleasurable death. But for those few adept, born and bred in the arms of magic, your death would herald a tear in the fabric of the Fade itself. You would summon scores of spirits and demons to the beacon of your grave." Morrigan's mother crossed her arms under her chest, eyes narrowing. "But enough of that. You still haven't told me about this oh-so-dangerous spell of yours."

"I didn't." Was Morrigan's swift retort. "But you shall." Her mother's eyes glinted dangerously, the madness in them becoming all the more evident.

Not for the first time, the young witch capitulated under the piercing stare of her mother's golden eyes. "I saw you," Morrigan blurted out. "That night when you left for another meeting with the Chasind shamans. You were a _dragon_." Envy and frustration colored the witch's voice as she balled her delicate hands into fists.

"And why not _ask_ me to teach you, then?"

"Because you would have made me give something in return, you selfish _hag_!" Morrigan flinched as her mother's face smoothed into a blank mask.

"I see. Then would you like to have the power to turn into a dragon then?" Morrigan's mother drew the knife she kept strapped to her belt at all times. "You have the theory down. And I daresay you have the skill, young as you may be. All you need," The knife kissed the exposed flesh of her wrist, drawing out the crimson of blood instantly. ",is a little _push_."

Morrigan's mother threw her injured hand out, the blood flying towards her daughter. Instead of spattering against the witch's tight robes, the red liquid stopped inches away. Morrigan's eyes widened as her mother's blood danced before her eyes.

_Blood magic._ Though no believer in the Chantry and Andraste, a shadow of fear still swallowed Morrigan's heart. She had seen how the barbarian shamans had powered their countless rituals and spells, their scars testament to the source of their magical might.

"_How_?"

Her mother threw her head back and cackled gleefully. "Where do you think the shamans learned, girl? Better yet, where do you think the practice started?" The witch stared suspiciously at her mother. She knew better than most that her mother was prone to flights of fancy. She had already heard the tales about her mother, most of them from the woman herself. No story was the same in the re-telling.

"You doubt my word? Good, that means that you have some common sense in that pretty head of yours instead of swamp mush." Another cackle burst from the old woman's lips. "But never be afraid of power. Foolish girl. Power is all that will stay with you in this wretched world."

"And why would you call the world wretched, mother?"

"That is between me and the world to talk about, young one. Now come, let us be off." Her mother released control, the blood falling down feebly to the ground.

"Where are we going?" Morrigan was already following, grabbing her staff as she went.

"Why, to be dragons, of course."

* * *

Morrigan ran through the Wilds in wolf form, her fur black with shades of lilac. It was a full moon in the middle of autumn, and the swamp winds blew mercilessly into the night.

_A woman, beautiful in her nakedness, sat gracefully on the rickety wooden table. "Tonight will be your last night of instruction, daughter of mine." Morrigan's mother needed men for her ritual, and she was not above using glamour to entice the Chasind men. _

It was too dark for men's eyes, yet Morrigan could see and smell everything in the sharpest clarity. The scent of rabbit slowed her steps, the wolf-mind hungering for the hunt. It was with some difficulty that she brought herself to reign. _Soon, Morrigan. Yours is a different hunt._

_Three men entered the hut, their fear turned to lust when their eyes laid upon her mother's nubile form. _'Tis but glamour, you fools. You would not touch her if you truly saw what she was. _Morrigan was silent as her mother led two of the older men into the single bedroom. She was left with the remaining Chasind: a boy fresh out of childhood._

Following trails well-known to her, Morrigan loped into the outskirts of Lothering, a small southern town. The swamplands were far behind her, but there was still an abundance of cover for what she planned to do.

_It was quite some time before her mother had finished with her share of men. But when the two Chasind men saw the corpse of their brother, throat slit and left to bleed out on the hard wood floor, Morrigan had been set upon in seconds. "Stop." Her mother's word was all that stopped the barbarians from ripping her apart then and now. With both arms locked roughly behind her, Morrigan smirked when the glamour fell from her mother's form. _

_There_. A strapping young man, presumably an apprentice of some sort, was wandering just beyond the town's borders, singing and sobbing in drunken unison. Before Morrigan could shed her wolfskin, she caught the smell of powerful magic largely different from her own. Where hers was the vicious crackle of angry lightning, this one's magic was the dull thrum of nature and stone. The witch set the thought aside, deciding to search for the magic's user another day.

_If not for the tales of her mother's tendency for killing those who offended her, the men would have backed away in disgust. Instead, they looked down and tried their best to wipe off her fluids discreetly. "And here I thought you would know better than to oppose me." With a huff of hesitation, Morrigan's mother turned to her grimoire. "Rut with her, you two. And there is no need to be gentle. My daughter is no stranger to pain, even though she is virginal." A scramble ensued, with Morrigan being bent over her own dining table. Cloth was ripped away, and then she was _filled. _The witch screamed._

"Wos 'is? A pretty youn' lass, all for me takin'! Naked to boot!" The drunken boy grinned lecherously at Morrigan's naked body, seemingly ignorant of the blood that ran down her legs. "C'mere, you." Rough hands pawed at her breasts, but Morrigan felt nothing but the ache in her lower regions.

_The young witch sobbed miserably, the Chasind men having had their way with her numerous times before running back to their tribal homes, carrying the body of their fallen brother between them. "Well, it seemed as if they wanted to make up for bedding an old hag like me. They were quite rough with you, daughter of mine." Morrigan curled into herself, too weak to speak and too afraid to strike out against her mother. The older witch sat on her heels, taking in her daughter's plight with delighted crazed eyes._

_"I need you to get one last thing for me, Morrigan."_

The boy's body lay in the ditch, his chest ripped open by large claw wounds. In her hands, Morrigan held two things: his heart and a beautiful clasp necklace. It was roughly fashioned, probably the first thing the apprentice had ever tried crafting. A simple silver band adorned the man's third left finger.

_I have found a beauty you will approve of, mother. And I hate you for it._


	4. The Once-Bard

_Shoutouts to any Econ22 classmates who read this particular chapter. _

* * *

It was summer in Val Royeaux, the capital city of Orlais and seat of power of the Chantry. The flowers were in bloom, trade had been profitable, and the neighboring backwater country of Ferelden was in a state of stagnancy. Life was blissful. And Marjolaine could not have been more bored.

"_Au nom de Andrasté! _I 'ave never seen such an _imbecile_ with your level of incompetence. Away with you!" The dark-haired bardmaster made a shooing gesture with her hands, dismissing her agent. Left alone, Marjolaine stretched lazily as she mulled over the newest bit of information.

"Fereldan _sots._" She murmured to herself. Rising from the comfort of the cushioned chair, Marjolaine sashayed into the sunny balcony of her _maison_. The sun greeted her with its warmth, but the Orlesian felt an odd tension in the air.

_Ah, ze Great Game does not rest so easily, no?_

Despite how tranquil things seemed to be on the surface, Marjolaine knew that the Game – a shadowy web of intrigue and scandal – was still played by the nobles of Orlais to this very moment. And as long as they did, bards like her would ever be within arm's reach.

A flash of color on the bustling street below caught Marjolaine's attention. A smirk crossed her lips when she spied upon her latest apprentice: Leliana. The redheaded bard was currently indulging one of her more silly pastimes: flirting with hapless young men. The victim this time was a Knight-Corporal by the name of Jean d'Luipard.

_The third son Dame Constance d'Luipard. A rigid woman with a bumpkin's approach to ze Game. Hardly worth knowing, though 'er son is quite ze _plaisir.

Sure enough, Leliana already had the young Templar panting after her, but she would have to be disappointed in this particular pursuit. Marjolaine blew out a shrill whistle which caught the attention of her apprentice. Leliana smiled radiantly at her, the boy instantly forgotten and set aside as Marjolaine crooked her finger imperiously.

The bardmaster wasted no time in preparing herself to receive Leliana. It was not out of a misplaced sense of vanity, as Marjolaine led other people to believe, but more out of the spirit of competition. Though young and still an apprentice, her Leliana had already made quite a name for herself among the secret circles of nobility. Tales of her beauty and soft-spoken ways enthralled many a young noble. Her unconfirmed status as a bard only lent to the mystery surrounding her apprentice.

The thought of her student's expected rise made Marjolaine stop and look in the mirror of her boudoir. It had been many years since her own initiation into the Game, and already signs of these began to call out to the bardmaster. A small streak of grey adorned one of the elaborate braids of her hair. Her arms and hips had thickened considerable no matter how strictly she dieted. By the Maker, Marjolaine was already imagining wrinkles popping out of the austere planes of her face!

_All ze more reason for slipping into ze use of cosmetics and masks, then._ With a deft and skillful hand, Marjolaine applied the last of the paint to her face. The result was quite enchanting, if she dared say so herself. The soft blue lines that danced around her eyes brought out the beauty of her braids and kept the eyes from wandering to lower, less attractive, areas. Paired with a white gown that billowed out below the waist, the bardmaster was as ready as she could be. In a moment of doubt, she almost reached out to don a silver mask, but kept herself from doing so. She still had no need for _that_, at the very least.

"You wish to see me, Marjolaine?" Dulcet tones heralded the arrival of Leliana. The beautiful bard leaned against the boudoir's doorway, the picture of demure servility. It had no effect on the Orlesian, having been the one who taught her how to move and speak appropriately in the first place. "Come in, _mon apprenti_. Take a seat." Marjolaine regarded the young woman with cool eyes as Leliana moved to take a seat across her.

The stories of Leliana's beauty were not a falsity, that much was certain. Despite her unfortunate mix of Orlesian and Fereldan blood, Marjolaine's apprentice had the appearance of a pureblooded Orlesian: a full face, soft yet endearing features, and a delicate nose. "_Je suis désolé_, sweet Leliana. I 'ope zat I did not overly disrupt your chat with ze young Templar." The red-haired bard shook her head emphatically, her river of flaming red hair swaying delicately with the motion. "Jean understands, Marjolaine. And you know that _you _will always be my first _priorité_." The bardmaster smiled inwardly at Leliana's open grin.

Skilled bard her Leliana might be, but all traces of guile melted away when Marjolaine stood before her. Fierce loyalty was something the older Orlesian frowned upon, yet in the case of her apprentice, it proved to be quite the advantage. "We shall be leaving Orlais in a few days, _mon apprenti_. Our _favorite _employer 'as given us an assignment of ze _utmost _importance." Leliana nodded, seemingly unsurprised at the mention of their most powerful benefactor. If _she _was moving, then great things were being set in motion.

And they were its harbingers.

"Where shall we be travelling, zen?" Leliana raised a disgusted eyebrow at her mentor's answer. "_Denerim_? Surely you do not mean zat land of wet dogs, Marjolaine!" Her bardmaster kept a blank expression on her face, but Leliana could feel her silent approval. "What purpose does zat barbaric country 'ave to do with ze Game?"

"You speak so cruelly of your mother's land, my pretty thing." Marjolaine leaned back, predicting her apprentice's outburst perfectly. The red-haired bard shot up to her feet, "_Exactement._ It is not my country. _Marjolaiiine_." Leliana had quite a cute tone to her pleading voice. "Do we 'ave to go zer? My shoes will be _ruined_!"

"Maybe I can be convinced to postpone our departure by someone with a _specific _set of skills, dear Leliana." As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Marjolaine felt the air between them thicken with sexual tension.

"What set of skills would be needed, Marjolaine." Her Leliana was quick on the uptake, dropping her voice to a sensual purr as she reached behind her back to undo the lace of her gown.

"I think you know what I mean." Marjolaine already felt heat pool in her belly as Leliana's tight gown loosened considerably. Her apprentice sank to her knees, but did not slip out of her dress. _A shade of green that brings out her hair. Clever, my lovely bard._

"And do you 'ave any _specific _person in mind?" Blue eyes glinted with mischief as Leliana began running her hands under Marjolaine's dress. The thought of her apprentice daring to take control of the situation should have infuriated the proud bardmaster. Instead, Marjolaine's desire sparked into a frenzy. With an unladylike growl, she pounced on her Leliana. A shriek which turned into a moan, and the green dress was thrown aside in tatters.

_Where we're going, my love, you will have little need of your pretty things._

* * *

Amaranthine was many things. It was the central piece in the arling of Amaranthine. It was one of the few port cities with easy access to goods both Orlesian and Ferelden. It was once the capital of occupied Ferelden. None of it was worth a bucket of fish guts to Leliana. _And I am well-acquainted with zat particular scent by now_. Thought the bard with a pained grimace.

_No. Not a bard. Not anymore. Not ever._ Tears sprang to Leliana's eyes at the thought of Marjolaine. Their assignment, if it could be called that, was equal to high treason! She had hoped to protect her lover and mentor, approaching her with the damning papers first without judgment in her heart. And what did she get for it? "A knife in the belly and a week in the Void."

The door to her room creaked open, and Leliana felt under her pillows for the dagger she kept near her at all times. "Leliana? Are you awake?" The smooth voice of Silas Corthwaite eased the redhead's nerves. "_Oui. _Do come in, Silas." The dour-faced warrior stepped into the room, keeping his weight on his left leg. Both he and Leliana had not escaped Harwen Raleigh's dungeons unscathed, but it was far better than the alternative.

Quick behind his heels was a kind-faced woman in her middle years. Judging by the Andrastean sunburst on her robes and the quality of her clothing, the woman was a high-ranking member of the Chantry Leliana had hidden in. Perhaps a Mother or one of the more influential Sisters. "How are you, my child?"

Silas must have seen the guarded look on Leliana's face, since he moved to introduce the lady. "Leliana, this is the Revered Mother Dorothea. She was the one who gave you the key and dagger while we were trapped by Raleigh's men." _A Reverend Mother?! But this could only mean – _Leliana backed away from the woman, and soon realized her mistake when her back bumped into the wall.

Pain lanced through her back, and she remembered the first night of her capture.

_Not for the first time in her life, Leliana thanked the Maker for the bardic training she had to endure ever since her entry into the Great Game. Marjolaine may have betrayed her to the Fereldan commander, but she had never been lax in training Leliana. So, as Harwen Raleigh and his men stripped her of her clothes and spread her legs apart, Leliana took a deep breath and began to daydream._

_A large part of a bard's training dealt with capture and torture on both ends of the ordeal. The key to enduring the enemy's interrogation techniques was to disassociate oneself with the body. As long as Leliana could numb herself, whatever they did was bearable._

_By the time the fourth man's turn came, Leliana was deep in a trance, mind flitting from one pleasant thing to another. The blue shoes she had seen that summer's day in the Val Royeaux marketplace. The look on Jean d'Luipard's face as she told him that she would be leaving. The rose he had given her that night. Marjolaine as she ripped the rose apart before claiming her with a wanton kiss._

**_Marjolaine._**_The love of her life. Her mentor. Her savior. Her betrayer._

_Leliana felt her heart clench in pain at the thought of recent events, breaking the calm she had cultivated since the start of Raleigh's 'session'. She felt the pain in her nether regions, blood oozing from her as the man pounded into her mercilessly. She smelt the odious stench of male stink, blood, and sperm. She saw the faces of her captors, cruel grins plastered on their faces as they undid their belt buckles in anticipation. Leliana screamed._

_After she had satisfied the needs of the beasts too many to count, Leliana felt herself being hauled to her feet and tied to a rough wooden pole. The stone of her cell was cold on her bare feet and she barely hung unto consciousness by that time, yet somehow, Raleigh managed to make himself be heard._

_"So, Orlesian whore. Are you ready to confess to your crimes against Ferelde? Or do we have to wring it out of your pathetic skin?" Harwen Raleigh's breath was hot on her neck, his rasping voice filled with a malice even Leliana could feel._

_At her silence, the Fereldan sneered. "Very well. Marjolaine said that you'd be a tough bitch to break. Nevertheless, my plans shall not be stopped. We will march on your arrogant country of painted bitches and take back what is rightfully ours. Have at her boys."_

_The whip sang into her skin, and Leliana fell into darkness once more._

Back in the present, Leliana was curled in a fetal position, tears streaming from her eyes as she recalled how Raleigh and his men redid the punishment – with surprises thrown in liberally – for almost a week. Sometimes her head was dunked into dirty water until she almost drowned. Other times, the soldiers used her as a practice dummy, hitting her mercilessly until bruises colored her entire body. _Non, it cannot be. This is just a dream. Just a dream. Maker. Oh, Maker._

Strong hands cradled her, smoothing her hair back while cooing a familiar Orlesian lullaby. Leliana had been known for her wealth of scarlet hair, and she took the greatest pleasure in twisting it into the most fashionable styles of the time. Raleigh's men had shorn her hair, turning the famed 'river of fire' into a ragged mess that hung barely to her neck. The time in the dungeons had done the rest, coating it – along with the rest of her – in layers of dirt and blood.

"It is alright, _mon enfant_. You are safe now." Leliana opened her eyes, and saw that it was the Revered Mother that held her. "_Parlez-vous Orlesian_?" Dorothea smiled kindly at her, the picture of serenity. "_Je suis Orlesian, _Leliana. Do not let my accent fool you. I have been in Ferelden for many years, and found that the way we speak is almost always met with distrust. As Reverend Mother, I cannot let this come between me and my flock."

Sufficiently settled by Dorothea's ministrations, Leliana was soon up and about, though her body still ached dreadfully. _It will be a long time before I can draw a bow properly. I shall have to stick with daggers for now. _"Why did you save me from Raleigh, Revered Mother?" Leliana raised a hand to prevent Dorothea from replying. "I beg you to speak truthfully. It is not every day when a servant of ze Chantry comes across a captured bard with ze key to 'er cell."

Silas shared looks with the Revered Mother before shrugging carelessly. "Nobles are not the only ones who play the Great Game, dear one." Leliana's brows rose at Dorothea's careful reply. She had heard of numerous servants of the Chantry playing at the Game. But one particular name stood out to her: a certain Sister from the royal line itself, one who learned at the feet of Emperor Florian and Lady Mantillon. "Marjolaine once told me of the Empress Celene's only rival for the Orlesian throne long ago, the apprentice of Emperor Florian and the notorious Lady Dowager herself."

Revered Mother Dorothea gave a modest curtsy. "Once, I was known as Dorothea d'Montsimmard, favorite niece of Emperor Florian. May the Maker give him peace. Alas, the foolishness of youth led to me falling into disfavor. Thus, I am now the Revered Mother Dorothea, humble servant of the Chantry." _Maker, to be before the one who once challenged Empress Celene's right to the throne! _Leliana lowered her eyes, lest she offend the woman before her. "Apologies, Your Highness. I did not mean to offend."

A good-natured laugh made Leliana look up. The Revered Mother was wiping tears of joy off her eyes. "Enough of that, my child. Were you not listening when I said that I had fallen out of favor? I am so unused to the Game by now that I allowed myself to be fooled by one such as Marjolaine. The Dowager would have my head for that alone." A note of sadness crept into her voice at the end, and Leliana could not help but wonder if Marjolaine had seduced her as well. Good manners, however, prevented her from asking.

"What would you 'ave me do, Revered Mother?" Dorothea's smile grew grim at Leliana's question, and she smoothed her skirts before answering. "I bid you to do nothing but what your heart desires. You might as well surprise yourself." Leliana nodded in assent, though she did not understand what the Revered Mother went. "Then, if you will excuse us, we 'ave a traitor to catch."

Sketch, the elf mage who had accompanied Leliana since the beginning of her ill-fated mission, was waiting on the Chantry's doorsteps, scribbling nervously on the pages of the thick tome he always brought with him. Approaching footsteps interrupted him, and Sketch looked up to see that his companions had arrived.

Silas Corthwaite was wearing a set of black armor adorned with the Andraste's starburst, proclaiming him to be a warrior blessed by the Chantry: not yet a Templar Initiate, but pretty close to it. His sword hung at his side as he held Tug's Edge in his right hand, the axe newly sharpened. Sketch grimaced, still grieving from the loss of his carefree dwarven friend. But he knew that the weapon would be of more use in Silas' hands than his. _Besides, I can always ask for it later. Right?_

Leliana, however, looked absolutely tired. Though Silas had a limp in his step, Leliana shuffled along, her wounds clearly far from being healed. Her leather armor was thankfully intact, and she had her longsword and dagger strapped to her back. The bow which she had often used to deadly effect in their time together was nowhere to be found. _Odd. Did she lose it or something?_

Before he could open his mouth, however, the two humans turned on their heels and began the trek towards Anselm's Reef, where Harwen Raleigh and Marjolaine were rumored to be seen. Shaking his head, Sketch slipped his tome into his pack and picked up his walking staff. "These shems will be the death of me."

* * *

Lothering was not so bad as Leliana had expected it to be. After dealing with the distasteful Harwen Raleigh – with both Leliana and Silas striking fatal blows to the defeated Fereldan – the once-bard had returned to the Chantry in Amaranthine City. With nowhere else to go and nothing left to do, she had spent her time in the Revered Mother's company. Dorothea was most eccentric for an Orlesian Chantrywoman. She had no ambitious plans for standing or influence and seemed to sincerely care about the people around her. Truly, Leliana was pleasantly surprised when she learned that the only reason the Revered Mother had re-entered the game was to protect the tenuous peace between Ferelden and Orlais.

_I had never met such a contented woman. Or such an energetic one, for that matter! _Another thing that set the Revered Mother Dorothea apart from others of her station was her willingness to actually _do _something. Instead of delegating tasks to the Sisters and Mothers below her, Dorothea led them by example, taking part in blessings and charitable acts with an enthusiasm that would have worn out a woman half her age. Unsurprisingly, Leliana was drawn in by the prospect of such a life. In no time at all, she had received training as a Lay Sister of the Chantry.

And now, here she was. Because of her diligence – though Leliana suspected that it was because of her closeness to the Revered Mother – a letter was sent from the Grand Cleric Elemena, a woman who was rumored to be an agent of a prominent Orlesian family. In the letter, it was stated in no unclear terms that Lay Sister Leliana had caught the attention of the Revered Mother in Lothering, and was required to transfer to Lothering in order to serve the Maker's will.

Leliana took in a deep breath as she stepped into the quaint southern town. Yes, Ferelden _did _smell like wet dog. But somehow, it had started to grow on her. In the short months she had spent in Amaranthine, she had seen the beauty hidden deep within Ferelden's gruff exterior. The simple lives of the people, free from two-faced plots and ulterior motives, was a breath of fresh air for Leliana's soul.

A trio of locals neared the Lay Sister, curiosity blatant on their faces. "Are you the new Lay Sister?" Leliana nodded at the one who spoke, a dark-haired lad with beautiful green eyes. He held himself with proud certainty, and was undoubtedly leader of the little group. "Name's Hunter. These are my siblings, Carver and Bethany." The other two children were definitely twins, if Leliana had her guess. Carver frowned, but nodded his head respectfully at her. Bethany blushed, and tried to hide behind her brothers.

"It is a pleasure to meet you all. My name is Leliana."

Hunter smiled then, a childish grin that made him look younger than he was. "Pretty accent you got there. Welcome to Lothering."

* * *

_Au nom de Andrasté! _– Orlesian for 'In the name of Andraste!'

_exactement _– Orlesian for 'exactly'

_imbécile _– Orlesian for 'idiot'

_Je suis désolé _– Orlesian for 'I am sorry'

_Je suis Orlesian _– Orlesian for 'I am Orlesian'

_maison _– Orlesian for 'manor'

_mon apprenti _– Orlesian for 'my apprentice'

_mon enfant _– Orlesian for 'my child'

_Parlez-vous Orlesian _– Orlesian for 'You speak Orlesian?'

_plaisir _– Orlesian for 'treat'

_priorité _– Orlesian for 'priority'

_sots _– Orlesian for 'fools'


	5. The Sten

The _imekari_ waits, his violet eyes betraying no fear at the test soon to befall him. He is one among many, an _aad_ of those who would soon be assigned their place within the _Qun_. The sun beat down mercilessly from the midday sky. Coupled with Par Vollen's humid atmosphere, they were soon bathed in the stickiness of their sweat. Still, none among them moved to announce discomfort and bring shame upon his fellows.

The _imekari_ nodded to himself, satisfied with the behavior that his comrades have shown. Soon enough, one of the _Tamassran_ stepped outside of the building across them and called him by his number and rank. Stepping forward, the _imekari _noticed the subtle widening of the female priest's eyes and was unsurprised.

_Kossith _such as he were rare among the _qunari_; and as such he was feared and respected in great measure. The child knew what the female _kossith_ saw: a golden-skinned child, naked save for a loincloth around the waist, with striking white hair upon his hornless head and cool lavender eyes that betrayed no emotion. He knew that great things were expected of him. _I will not fail._

The room that the _imekari _was escorted into was one of many identical ones, empty save for the presence of four grim-faced _qunari_. The hornless one felt his brows rise, but was able to settle his expression into one of calm deference. "_Shanedan_, wise ones." _Four _judges. He had expected two at the very most, but for four claims for his place in the _Qun_? Unthinkable.

The smallest of the gathered _qunari_ chuckled kindly, gesturing for the child to sit. The _imekari_ obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the cold marble floor. "He is quite remarkable, is he not? Four _Ash-Ebasit_ face him – the first in many years – and he greets us as if we were wayward _hissra_!" Remarked the small _qunari_, an elf with intricately braided hair.

Rumbles of good-natured laughter came from the other _kossith Ash-Ebasit_, though one – a scowling, one-eyed male – continued to glare suspiciously at the child. The _imekari_ met his gaze evenly, not challenging but rather defending his place before them.

"On with it, then. Young one, do you recognize the four before you?" It seemed as if the elven _qunari_ would be the only one speaking, since the other three were satisfied to stare at the child, their kind eyes calculating and hard.

The hornless one bowed before addressing each of the wise ones in turn. He started from the left, regarding the large bulk of the male _kossith _before him. "Clearly, you are part of the _Antaam, _given the armor you wear and the sword at your hip. The question, wise one, is which part do you serve? Could it be _Shokmeraad_, trained to harness the power of wind and sea against enemy ships? Or _Beresaad_, soldiers sent first against those who would defy the _Qun_? It is obvious that you are no _Kashok, _for you would not be here in the first place."

The _imekari_ though for a moment, his smooth chin on his calloused fist. He noticed how the armor that the _Ash-Ebasit_ was not as worn with use, that it gleamed immaculately in the light of the room. "You are _Sataareth_, those sworn to defend the borders from outside threats." The large _qunari_ nodded, confirming the child's answer.

Next, he turned to the elven _qunari_. Unlike the rest of his companions, the elf wore no armor. Instead, he was clothed in the practical dress of one of the _Athlok, _though his was of finer quality than most. "Wise one, you dress as one of the _Athlok_, yet you do not have their calloused hands and dirtied clothes. You are more than you seem to be. A delegate of the _Arigena_, perhaps?" The _Ash-Ebasit _clapped his hands, pleased with the perceptiveness of the young _kossith_.

The next one was clear enough, for the _kossith _wore the markings of the _Arvaraad _on his skin. The grey-skinned _kossith _snorted, claiming that self-mastery was the only test he needed for new blood like the child.

The last and most puzzling, however, was the one-eyed _kossith_. He wore armor that could have belonged to any_ qunari _in the _Antaam_. Nothing particularly stood out except for the scar on his blinded eye, and the child could not use that as a clue to anything else. "_Ash-Ebasit_, it is most troubling how I cannot see anything thing that could identify you as more than an ordinary warrior." The scowl deepened, as if condemning the statement as failure. The _imekari_ was quick to move one. "But perhaps that _is_ the answer to this question. You are _Ash-Ebasit_, yet you command little to no attention to yourself. Save for the scar, any _bas _would not know the difference between you and any other _kossith_. You are there, yet not there. You are _Ben-Hassrath_."

The scowl lessened, and the _kossith_ gave a gruff shake of his horned head. "Three of four is not unbecoming of a hornless one." The other _Ash-Ebasit_ nodded their assent. "I am not _just Ben-Hassrath_, young one. I am _Besrathari_, a leader and trainer of the _Ben-Hassrath_. It seems coming here was not in vain."

The _Ash-Ebasit_ moved to sit before the young _kossith_, crossing their legs in the same way he had. This time, it was the _Sataareth_'s turn to speak, his voice melodiously deep. "As my fellow _Ash-Ebasit_ has mentioned, it is a rare thing for four of us to lay claim for an _imekari_. However, you are an oddity within the _qunari_. Not only were you born thus," An armored hand gestured at the child, "Smaller and hornless you may be, but you match – and exceed – those who have been born under normal circumstance. But it was neither your appearance nor your pedigree that attracted such attention."

The young one's purple eyes met the four sets leveled upon him, a hint of curiosity rising inside him. _They have gone so far as to ask the Tamassrans for my name? Attention, indeed! _His pedigree was indeed one of great purity and strength, and appeared to be the first reason for so many to lay claim to him. _What would be the real reason, then? _His silent inquiry was answered by the gruff _Arvaraad_."You display mastery at such a wide repertoire of skills that it would put those older than you to shame, hornless _imekari_. As expected, you show aptitude in combat and warfare, thus the presence of _Sataareth Ash-Ebasit_." Despair crushed the little child's heart, though he let nothing show on his grave young face.

Was he not worthy of serving the _Antaam _in service to the _Qun_? Was he only good enough to patrol the borders of Par Vollen, never to know glory in war?

The _Besrathari _had a quick eye, for he spoke up next, sensing the _imekari'_s distaste for such a role. "Aside from that, you possess discipline and leadership ability far beyond that of those in your _aad_. That alone had been enough for the _Ariqun_ to petition _qunari _from both our ranks to lay claim."

The young _kossith _allowed a small smile to pass his lips. There was a certain honor in the ways of the _Ben-Hassrath _and the _Arvaraad_, both playing important roles to the integrity of _qunari_ faith. A position as a spy-priest policing the faithful or the position as one who controls those who wield magic was not one he had particularly cared for, but it was a great and perilous service all the same.

The elf was last to speak. "It is quite odd for the _Arigena _to take interest in one so immersed in combative arts. However, there has been quite a stir about some of your work. I am told you possess quite the skill with brush and canvas." The _imekari _nodded, thinking about how pleased the _Tamassrans_ had been when he had created a series of paintings for them not a week ago, all depicting the history of the _qunari _peoples. The reason for the elf _Ash-Ebasit's _presence was undoubtedly the cause of those paintings.

The child waited patiently, curious as to which claim had won over all others.

"The question, now, is as to who shall lay claim on the child. All four of us are rather hard-headed _qunari_, unwilling to relinquish their hold on you." The elf _qunari _kept smiling, though steel seemed to show through his cheerful expression. It was clear that the four _Ash-Ebasit _were hopelessly deadlocked, each not giving way to the other. Thus, it fell to the young _imekari _to choose his fate.

Not wishing to look impulsive, he thought ponderously on the matter and soon fell to meditations. Seeing the depth of his thoughts, the wise ones did likewise. Their breathing soon evened out into long slow breaths, synchronizing effortlessly as they willed themselves into a shallow trance. By the time the young _kossith _had made his decision, the sun had already sunk into the horizon, leaving the marble floor all the colder for it. There were none left in the building, all of the other _imekaris_ already having found their rightful place in serving the _Qun_.

The hornless child spoke, with a solemn grace that only young children were able to have.

"It is with a sad heart that I refuse to choose any of the claims laid before me. I do not mean to offend, _Ash-Ebasits_, but I do not believe that I can gladly serve the _Qun_ in any of these paths. As such, I am a useless thing, and must be exiled or executed. This one would prefer to be subjected to the latter." The _imekari_ prostrated before the four, ready for the fate that would befall on him. It was foolish to refuse a reasonable claim, and to have so much to choose from did nothing but confirm his folly. But the hornless one knew what he wanted, what he had believed the _Qun _would offer him, and thus could not lie either to himself or the _Ash-Ebasit _before him.

_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._

A strong voice, deeper than that of any of the four before him, came from behind him. "And, against all I have set against him, he passes. You have earned your role, young one. Do not let pride destroy you."

The _imekari_ rose from his bow and turned, not believing his eyes. On the twelfth year of his life, he was before him. A silver-skinned _kossith_ clad in the traditional blood-red armor of the _Antaam_, numerous tattoos adorning his body in bold stripes. A sword and axe of great size was strapped to the _kossith'_s back, edges glinting dangerously in the near darkness. Two pairs of the largest horns the child had ever seen would have weighed down a lesser _kossith_, but this one made it seem like a feather-light crown.

Two words sprang to the _imekari's _mind: _Arishok. _Father.

"Rise and submit to the _Qun, Sten _of the _Beresaad._"

* * *

"Do you accept this task, _Sten_?"

The _Arishok _leaned his back against the cold stone of his throne, mindful of the scarlet pauldrons of his traditional peace-time armor. Flanked on either side by the _Arigena _and the _Ariqun_, it would not do to lounge carelessly as he usually did. His fellow leaders in the _Salasari _rarely joined him in the War Chambers. The architecture of Par Vollen – and _qunari _society in general – was meticulously spartan in structure, allowing enough for bare needs and nothing less. Yet, the dwellings of those who wage _shok_ against the _bas_, were notorious for their exacting measurements of what was necessity and what was luxury.

The sight of both female _kossith _doing their best to keep themselves from shivering from the cold stone only served to agree with the _Qun_'s view on the roles of women. _Better as administrators, craftsmen, and priests rather than risk life and limb for the good of the qunari._ The _Arishok_ kept his thoughts to himself, not wanting to antagonize the women needlessly, and instead turned his attention to his son.

_One of many who make me proud_. The _Arishok_ was well-acquainted with his people's view on such favoritism. Once a child had been birthed from the union of two _qunari_, the _Tamassrans_ would serve as mother and father, teaching and training the child as they saw fit. It was a personal vice of the _Arishok_, however, to keep track of the children he had sired over his many years.

Even he was impressed by how strong his blood had run true. Of the thirteen he had fathered, almost all had been called to join the _Antaam_ and performed well in their duty to the _Qun_. But the most remarkable of his children was the _Sten _before him. The only one other had been hornless, but did not have the same promise that this one had. To secure five claims from different roles had been unheard of! Much whispering was made among those in the know, and many eyes were now fixed on the _kossith _commander.

The _Arishok_ felt a pride in his chest, a pride he hid well for fear of sowing seeds of distrust among the _qunari_. Nonetheless, he was proud of his seed.

_Sten _would do quite well, indeed.

"As you command, _Arishok_. It shall be done." The _Sten_ was impassive, hands clasped behind his back with the discipline of a well-trained officer. Already the hornless _kossith_ was armored in his battle gear, as if ready to leave at a moment's notice. _He probably is_. The Triumvirate expected no less for their chosen _Sten_.

The _Arigena _leaned forward, her kind face unwrinkled by time. Like the _Sten_, she was of golden skin and violet eyes. The resemblance was no coincidence, since this particular _kossith _happened to be the mother of the _Arishok_. He wondered if the female knew. Most likely, she did not, for the concern on her face was the same as she had shown every warrior of the _Antaam _tasked with a crucial mission.

"How ready are you for this mission, _Sten _of the _Beresaad_?" Since he was the only _Sten_ in the room, she did not need to specify the name of his company or battalion. Two pairs of purple eyes met; one questioning, the other confident.

"We have prepared the necessary rations for the expedition, _Arigena_. Our weapons and packs are complete as to the regulations of the _Athloks_. The voyage will not be troublesome, for I – "

"She does not talk about your military readiness, _Sten_." This time it was the _Ariqun _that spoke, cutting off the _kossith _impatiently. "You have proven yourself worthy of commanding such an expedition, of that we are certain. But can you assimilate with the people of this country? They are as yet unenlightened by the _Qun, _and there will certainly be troubles to plague you in this land. Are you ready for _that_?"

The _Arishok _frowned at the rude behavior of the _Ariqun_, but saw the sense in the question. He stayed silent, and waited for the _Sten'_s response. Irritation flashed in the purple eyes, but the hornless one stayed his tongue. _Good. He shows patience to those above him, and it is in accordance to the Qun_.

"I have read all I can about this land called Ferelden. I have also spoken at length with any among us with any knowledge that can be used in this expedition." The King's Tongue sounded strange on the _Sten's _lips, but it was evident that he showed mastery in that language. His diction was perfect. Astonishingly so.

"All this in the span of two week's? No _kossith_ is that much of a skilled scholar. Or do you claim to be an _Ashkaari _as well as a _Sten_?" Biting words they may be, but they lost much of their sting at the inquiring tone of the _Ariqun's _voice.

"I am content to be as I was told to be, _Ariqun_. The preparation was made months beforehand." The _Arishok_ pinned the _Sten _with his silver eyes, seeking for telltale signs of a lie. There were none to be found.

"Months beforehand, you say? But the appointment as to who will lead such a mission was – as the _Ariqun _says – two weeks ago. Did you expect that you will be the one chosen for such a task, _Sten_?" There was a veiled tone of chastisement in the _Arigena's _tone. Conceit and pride was one of the more harmful affronts against the _Qun_, and the female had little patience for it.

"No." Despite facing the entire _Salasari _by himself, the _Sten_ was showing an enviable ability to remain calm. "But talk of an expedition to Ferelden had been around months before. I simply prepared myself if I was ever chosen. One does not wish to disappoint the pillars of the _Qun _with failure."

The _Arishok_ barked out a laugh, startling the two women on either side of him. The huge _kossith _stood, and the females nearly scrambled to follow suit, not wishing to be dwarfed in front of the _Sten_.

"It seems that we have indeed chosen the right _Sten_ for this expedition. Go forth, _Sten _of the _Beresaad_. Answer the Triumvirate's question."

The _Sten _drew his sword – his _Asala_ – and saluted the three leaders of the _qunari_ people. He strode out of the War Chambers, intent on seeking out his _aad _and venturing forth to answer this question.

_What is the Blight?_

* * *

_aad – _Qunlat for 'unit'

_Antaam – _Qunlat for 'army'

_Arigena_ – Qunlat for 'leader of craftsmen'; one of the three leaders of the _qunari_

_Arvaraad_ – Qunlat for 'one who holds back evil'; _qunari _equivalent of a templar

_Ariqun _– Qunlat for 'leader of the priests'; the spiritual leader of the _qunari_

_Arishok_ – Qunlat for 'leader of war'; military leader of the _qunari_

___Ash-Ebasit_ – Qunlat for 'those who seek for purpose'; sent to judge a _qunari_'s capabilities

_Ashkaari _– Qunlat for 'one who seeks'; a learned one

_Athlok _– Qunlat for 'worker'

_bas _– Qunlat for 'thing'; foreign to the _Qun_

_Ben-Hassrath – _Qunlat for 'heart of many'; spy-priests who protect the _qunari_ faith

_Beresaad_ – Qunlat for 'those who reach ahead'; the vanguard of the _qunari _forces

_Besrathari – _Qunlat for 'recruiter of the heart'; those who train the _Ben-Hassrath_

_hissra _– Qunlat for 'illusions'; used to refer to deities

_imekari _– Qunlat for 'child'

_Kashok _– Qunlat for 'warrior'; the main body of the _qunari _forces

_kossith _– predated term for what the _qunari _once called themselves

_qunari _– Qunlat for 'those of the Qun'

_Salasari _– Qunlat for 'triumvirate'; collective term for the three _qunari _leaders

_Sataareth_ – Qunlat for 'guardian'; those that police the borders of Par Vollen

_shanedan_ – Qunlat for 'I will hear you'

_shok _– Qunlat for 'war'

_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._ – Qunlat for 'Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.'

_Shokmeraad _– Qunlat for 'warrior of the tide'; warriors who specialize in naval battle

_Sten_ – Qunlat for 'commander'; an infantry commander of the _Beresaad_

_Tamassran _– Qunlat for 'those who speak'


	6. The Magus

"Are you serious? You want _me_ to talk to _her_." Irving, the newest addition to the Enchanters of the Fereldan Circle of Kinloch Hold, raised an eyebrow. "Scared, boy? I'd understand if you chickened out of this. _Ice Queen _Wynne is a lot colder than the freezy chair." Seated beside the young Enchanter was his mentor and friend, Enchanter Sweeney. Irving grunted in response, his fingers entwined in thought.

For mages like themselves – shunned by common man and isolated inside the ivory tower of Kinloch Hold – boredom was a common enemy. Most of his fellow magi spent most of their lives in pursuit of knowledge, be it magical or mundane. It was not unusual for a mage to speak more than two languages and recite whole chapters of books from memory, but even then there were those who seemed to be _too _obsessed with learning.

Chief among those was Magus Wynne, the notorious Ice Queen of Kinloch Hold.

The white-haired woman was presently tackling a dusty grimoire thicker than the table she set it upon, meticulously writing on a separate scroll with a well-used quill. Younger than Irving by a few years, Wynne was among the most talented mages of her generation. Normally, it would have led to her being one of the most guarded by the Templar Order. But surprisingly, most of the Templars seemed to respect the young mage, even going so far as to offer to carry her many, many books.

_Must be one hell of a suck-up, then_. _Can't imagine how a bucket head could get along with someone as pretty as her without wanting something in return._

A cough drew the attention of Irving away from the object of his thoughts. "Up to the old tricks again, Enchanter Irving?"

_Great, just my luck to have _Owain _barge in on us._

The East Library on the Tower's second floor was barely private, with magi of all shapes and sizes roaming around the aisles. Irving and Sweeney had chosen the table that provided the best position for observing the busy mages. But Irving's apprentice seemed to be part bloodhound at the worst of times. "Anything I can help you with, _Apprentice _Owain?" Though the dark-haired mage was about the same age as Irving and Sweeney, Owain had been brought to the Circle at a later time. Since then, not a day had passed when the Apprentice would not pester the two Enchanters for tips on spellcraft or books on magical theory.

_Speaking of bookworms, there goes Ines. _Irving ignored Owain, who plopped down on the vacant chair to his right, and suppressed a frown as he saw where the dowdy botanist was headed.

_"What in the bloody Fade is your problem, __**Ice Queen**__?!"_

The shrill tone of Ines Arancia's voice bounced off against the marble walls, echoing across the library. A hush fell on the mages as Ines confronted Wynne. "What got into your mind when you wrote that complaint to First Enchanter Arlen, huh? My time at the gardens got cut. _By half. _What the bloody hell is wrong with you!"

Wynne looked up at the enraged botanist, and then resumed nonchalantly reading the book. Irving had never seen Ines turn that red in the face before.

"Sweeney, I think we should put a stop to this before things get out of hand." When his fellow Enchanter did not reply, Irving turned towards him. Just in time to see the biggest grin splitting Sweeney's face into two. _Really now_.

"What the – "

"Shut up, Irving. This is the most excitement the Circle had in _weeks_!"

Sweeney folded his arms over his chest and leaned back, content to watch the show unfold before him. Irving was sweating buckets, the poor lad. Owain, on the other hand, looked positively _dreadful_. _Was I ever that much of a wuss when _I _was still an Apprentice? Nah, I think not._

Ines was shouting curses at the uncaring Wynne, berating the white-haired mage's intelligence and parenthood in the most colorful way imaginable. The Ice Queen was too busy jotting down notes to pay attention to the furious botanist before her. Sadly, the fun was doomed to be short-lived. Ines had never been a patient woman, and this was not one of her good days.

Almost everyone drew in sharp breaths as they felt the Fade shift, magic gathering around the angry form of the botanist-mage. Sweeney stopped smiling, and began chanting a counter-spell. In-fighting was all well and good, but it would be a dark day for the Circle if one of their own began casting without sanction from the Order. He could feel Irving doing the same, the words of power falling from the young man's lips with the ease of practice. "Ines, you hot-headed cow. You're going to ruin the fun."

"_Mage_. What do you think you're doing."

_We're doomed. It's Knight-Corporal Greagoir._

* * *

It had been a relatively normal day for the young Knight-Corporal. He had woken with the rising sun and performed his morning meditations among the rest of his Templar brethren. The rest of the morning and the whole of the afternoon were spent patrolling the first floor of Kinloch Hold, making sure that the new additions to the Circle's magi were settling in their new home with comfort.

_Of course, things were too good to last_.

The stoic Templar sighed as Ines Arancia was dragged away by his partner, Templar Bran. The woman had a reputation for impetuousness, but he had never expected her to call on the Fade against a fellow mage. And to think that it was _Wynne_, of all people! Greagoir had always pitied those cursed with magic and had always done what was best for the good of the Circle. In his short but storied career in the Fereldan Circle, he had formulated a general rule that had almost always held true.

The more powerful the mage, the more trouble he would bring.

This was not the case when one spoke of Wynne. Among her peers, she had stood out as one who always had a strong grasp with the Fade. But she had always been respectful to mage and Templar alike, attending to her duties and classes with a silent eagerness that pleased many of her teachers. Greagoir could only name one person off-hand who had shown as much skill as Wynne, and he was a pain to handle. A pain that was stalking towards this very moment.

"What is it now, Irving?" Greagoir tried to sound neutral as the newest Enchanter drew level to him. But _Maker_, it was hard not to be irritated with the man.

"It wasn't her fault, Greagoir. Wynne did something to piss her off." Irving glanced furtively at Wynne, who was too busy writing on her scroll to notice the discussion.

"Be that as it may,it is no excuse to call upon her magic without any Templar to escort her."

"Damn it, Greagoir! We're not going to turn into abominations any time soon. It was a stunning spell. Sweeney and I were ready with the counters!" Irving's voice dropped into a demanding whisper, seeing that many of the library's visitors were paying undue notice to their conversation.

"You expect me to allow mages to police their own, then? I am not a radical mage-hater, Irving, but listen to how absurd your statement sounds." The Knight-Corporal knew that his argument was sound, but he already knew the mage's reaction. Irving's reaction darkened, a tic appearing on his jaw.

"Fine. At least talk to Wynne. Get the facts from both sides before you apply undue punishment on Ines, _Knight-Corporal_." The Enchanter folded his arms and waited; the challenge clear in his fierce brown eyes. Giving a brusque nod of his head, Greagoir approached Wynne.

And found himself wishing he hadn't.

In the heat of his argument with Irving, Greagoir had forgotten that it was _Wynne _that they were talking about. Wynne: the beautiful and talented mage who could make him blush and fidget like a schoolboy with the smallest of smiles. Someone that Knight-Corporal Greagoir had a thousand reasons not to be attracted to, yet found himself being drawn to just the same.

"G-good afternoon, Wynne." Greagoir cursed inwardly at his stutter and stood straighter, thinking that the posture of confidence would stop the heat on his face.

Wynne looked up, her small smile reaching the dark blue of her kind eyes. Greagoir felt his face grow hotter.

"Are you sick, Knight-Corporal? You look flushed. Have you been drinking enough water?" Wynne stood up to put the back of her hand against Greagoir's forehead. Unlike most of his brethren, the Templar went about his duties without donning his helm. Greagoir did not wish to become another faceless menace to the mages under his care. He wanted to be seen at all times so that he could not hide any misdeeds behind a mask of anonymity.

A clear disadvantage to that was how people could see the dumbstruck expression on his face.

This close to the female mage, Greagoir was overwhelmed by how beautiful Wynne was. The mage had a striking beauty to her that Greagoir could not attribute to any single feature. Yes, her hair was the color of snow – the result of a spell gone wrong in her childhood, some say – and her eyes were deep pools of blue, but the thing that made Wynne irresistible was an appeal almost magical in nature. Greagoir could almost smell the Fade clinging to her skin, the scent not unlike that of summer rain.

Of course, Wynne's body did not disappoint. Hidden beneath the blue and gold of her robes were sensuous curves and a bosom that was delightfully out of proportion with the rest of her. Greagoir had his share of Templars talking about how enticing Wynne was, how they would gamble for the opportunity to stand guard whenever she would bathe. Many among them had planned for the opportunity to catch her alone in a dark corner of the Tower. They were swiftly submitted to a thorough trashing at the hands of the Knight-Corporal.

"Greagoir? Are you alright?"

With a start, the Knight-Corporal realized that he was staring at Wynne. Quite inappropriately, in fact. The snickers behind him were undoubtedly those of that troublemaker, Sweeney. How the man got the rank of Enchanter was ever a mystery to Greagoir.

Clearing his throat, the Knight-Corporal began to speak, but was silenced when his eyes landed on the cover of Wynne's book. _Incantations Most Foule_. It was an old piece of Tevinter lore dealing with offensive spells that bordered on the use of blood magic. The only reason why Greagoir had recognized the title was because it was listed in the Knight-Commander's letters as a book forbidden from the use of those below the rank of Enchanter. Wynne was still a Magus, one rank below that of Enchanter.

"Why do you have that book?" Greagoir's tone was sharper than he intended, judging on how Wynne's eyes widened in surprise.

"What do you mean?" The mage's expression was the definition of innocence, but the Knight-Corporal was no fool.

"That book is denied from those under the rank of Enchanter. Now tell me why you, a Magus, was able to acquire this book, _or there will be consequences_." Greagoir towered over Wynne, hands unconsciously seeking the hilt of his sword. Instead of cowering like most mages did when faced with an angry Templar, Wynne puffed her considerable chest out and met Greagoir head-on.

"If the Knight-Corporal had asked nicely like a _civil_ person would, he would have been told that the First Enchanter had given me permission to use this book for my thesis on defending against blood magic." Wynne reached into her pockets to produce a note from the Knight-Commander himself. "This was, of course, sanctioned by the proper authorities. In accordance with the _rules _governing this Circle."

Greagoir felt himself back away as Wynne poked his chest angrily. "But since the Knight-Corporal doesn't have the _common sense_ to speak like a well-mannered person would, I suggest that he take that sword and shove it up his self-righteous _arse_. Nicely."

Having said her piece, Wynne gathered her things and stalked off, leaving a rather embarrassed Knight-Corporal in her wake. Sweeney's snickers escalated into barely-suppressed howls of laughter. Talk rippled among the spectators in the library, whispers of the Ice Queen and how she feared no Templar. Greagoir felt a hand land on his armored shoulder.

"Tough luck, Knight-Corporal. Maybe I really _should _talk to her, after all. We're both Aequatarians. I could use some tips on healing." Irving had a smug grin on his face, baiting Greagoir yet again with the threat of going after the object of his affections.

"Shut up, mage."

* * *

"Wynne, it's been a month already. You need to get better."

Senior Enchanter Wynne staggered to the door, unlocking the heavy doors to her room. She would not have bothered answering the voices outside her room, but these two deserved much better. Irving and Greagoir looked shocked as they saw Wynne, robes crumpled and hair undone.

"Maker's Breath, Wynne." Knight-Commander Greagoir's voice was soft and hushed; a far cry from his barking tone of command.

"How would _you_ fare if you lost a child, you fool. Come here, Wynne." Strong arms enfolded Wynne as First Enchanter Irving embraced her frail form. Tears fell unbidden from her eyes, and she could not have felt more adrift.

It had been many years since all three had met each other, the memory of innocence and youth a vague splotch in their lives. Somehow along the way, Wynne became a Senior Enchanter and one of Ferelden's premier Spirit Healers while Irving and Greagoir spiraled to attain the highest titles in the Tower. Already their names have become legend to the younger generation of Templars and magi, and they were barely pas the age of thirty.

_And all of it was for nothing. Nothing at all._

His name was Ravi, a Templar born in the Free Marches and raised in Orlais. He had a reputation for being a promiscuous man, a reputation that Wynne chose to ignore. He was younger than Wynne, and free from the prejudice that marred the Fereldan Circle. She lost herself in his arms and found love in his haunting gaze. A year later, Templars barged into her room and manhandled her pregnant body to the nearest Chantry.

Wynne winced as she remembered how she cried out during labor, how the pain she felt was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Waves of heat burned through her as she pushed and pushed and _pushed_, to no avail. Greagoir stood guard through the entire ordeal, wearing the utilitarian helmet of the Knight-Commander for the very first time. Even with his face hiding behind solid silverite, the man's shoulders were wracked with unheard sobs.

Amidst her hysterics, Wynne studies the faces of the two men absent-mindedly. A long time ago, Irving and Greagoir almost looked like twins, both being dark-haired and brown-eyed. Now, they could not have been more different. Greagoir appeared to be the more youthful of the two, his beard still free from streaks of grey. His black eyes were not unkind, but there was steel behind his gaze that could only be forged in the fires of devotion and hardship. Irving was, in some ways, the same carelessly scruffy youth he had been before his ascension to First Enchanter. Though there was grey streaking his unruly hair and bushy beard and dark circles under his eyes, he retained the kind composure that set him apart from the rest of the Senior Enchanters.

Composure that only broke in the presence of the Knight-Commander.

"You're coddling her, Irving. I was there when she gave birth to the child, so do not treat me like one of your apprentices."

Tension sparked between the Templar and the mage, but dissolved as Wynne chuckled. "When will you two _ever_ stop fighting?" Ever since Irving and Greagoir had entered her life, the Senior Enchanter could not recall a time when peace reigned between the two. It was partly her fault, anyway. Ravi had hardly been the first man in her life. Irving and Greagoir had been her lovers at one time or another, but it had never gone past casual flirtation and the need for physical release. Ravi was different. Her child was different.

And she was not done paying the price.

"What was his name, Wynne?" Irving ran his hands up and down her back, the concern his voice that of a brother and not a past lover.

"Rhys." Greagoir was the one who spoke, emotion coloring his words. "He was beautiful, just like his mother."

* * *

"_Teacheeer! _Merria wrote on my books!"

"I did not, Amell! It was Jowan!"

"What?! Was not! Take that back, Surana!"

Busy as she was with teaching Keili the basics of a simple Heal Spell, Wynne did not see who started hitting who until the rest of the children started shouting and pointing fingers.

"My goodness, children! You shouldn't do such things, especially to your fellow students." Wynne had already healed the bruise on Jowan's face and was tending to Merria Amell's cut lip. Malik, on the other hand, was relatively unhurt. Shaking her head in disapproval, Senior Enchanter Wynne regarded the three newest additions to her class.

Merria Amell from Kirkwall in the Free Marches. Malik Surana from the Dalish. Jowan of Ferelden. There could not have been a more disparate set of individuals, but Wynne knew from experience that barriers like this would soon be torn down by proximity in age and presence. Hopefully. Gesturing at the rest of the class to continue their lessons, Wynne knelt down to address the young mages.

"Now, I will not ask who started what. But I do have a word of advice for you three." Wynne waved the children closer, taking careful note of their reactions. Merria and Jowan were fearful yet obedient, while Malik hung back with stubbornness inherent of Dalish elves.

"Sometimes we say and do things we later regret, young ones. You should learn to apologize when you are wrong, and to forgive when you are right." Young Surana snorted disdainfully.

"How would you know what to do? You're a grown-up. You don't _make_ mistakes."

Wynne felt guilt flash through her, her recent failure reminding her yet again that she was far from perfect. Jowan noticed the look of pain on her face and laid his pale hand on hers.

"Sweet child, if you only knew. Sometimes, grown-ups make more mistakes thank children."

Merria opened her mouth in protest, but was cut off by Petra, eldest of the children. "Teacher Wynne, what's an Antivan milk sandwich?"

_Maker, save me._


	7. The Berserker

Orzammar shook with the roars of the crowd as the first competitor sunk to his knees.

Oghren grinned, dropping the weapon and raising both fists in the air as the waves of sound and acclamation washed over him. _Hail to the victor, baby._ It was barely past seven bells in the morning cycle, but the Proving Grounds of the dwarven capital was packed with spectators and gamblers. Normally, the Trials of Blood was a ceremonial thing, an annual event where Houses put forward the best of their untested warriors to introduce them to blood and glory. But this year was different for two reasons.

One: King Endrin Aeducan has offered a most unusual prize for the winner, one of the runic golems employed to protect the royal family. The creature itself was a thing of beauty, a moving steel statue powered by lyrium and enchantment. Few Houses had the honor of possessing a golem outside Shaperate control, and all of them were of Noble Caste.

Which led to the second reason: For the first time in many generations, a Warrior House was allowed to participate in the Trials of Blood. And House Kondrat chose their best warrior. Oghren Kondrat.

The red-haired dwarf exited the arena to the sound of chanting, a smug grin plastered on his bearded face. His first match was quick to end, which was a sodding good start. With the way these contests were set up, saving your energy sometimes proved more useful than fighting well.

"Putting on a rather premature celebration, aren't we?" A smug baritone ruined the start of the berserker's good mood.

Oghren's features darkened as he saw who the voice belonged to. _Piotin Aeducan. Figures._ The King's eldest nephew was cocksure and arrogant, his unbroken streak of victories giving him a swollen ego. Flanking him were Ronus Dace and Renvil Harrowmont, his squadmates and the sons of the royal advisors. All three had donned newly-forged armor and carried weapons chock full of runes. Amateurs.

"Sod off, Aeducan. Ain't standing around takin' yer shit." Oghren grinned as the young dwarf turned red at the insult.

"You better watch your mouth, Warrior Caste! You shouldn't even **be** here in the first place!" Loilinar Ivo, another one of Piotin's flunkies, jabbed an accusing finger at the berserker. Oghren growled.

"Put that thing away 'fore I break it in two." Ivo yelped before whisking the offending digit away. "So I'm s'pposed to think you lot have more right than I do? I don't see any of you fightin' off an ogre and saving the King's daughter."

_Not saying how I got into the position, though._

If Oghren hadn't wandered away from his patrol looking for his drunken father, he wouldn't have seen Roshca Aeducan surrounded by the 'spawn in the first place. Of course, he'd seen his father's corpse a while after, torn apart by genlock fangs. But it had all turned out for the better. At least, that's what he kept saying to himself.

Piotin swaggered up to Oghren and sneered, apparently unimpressed by the rescue of his cousin. "Just you wait, Kondrat. You'll get yours soon enough."

* * *

"The victor, Oghren of House Kondrat!" The Proving Master's sonorous voice sounded more than a bit impressed. It wasn't every day when a Warrior Caste took on the best fighters from House Harrowmont and House Dace. And _won_, even. The form of Oghren Kondrat, bloodied yet unbowed and issuing a savage victory cry, was the stuff that made the crowds go wild. Orzammar would be talking about this for days to come.

_Bloody nug-humping __**bastards**__!_ Oghren grimaced, hoping that the pain did not reflect on his face. It was a close one. Dace and Harrowmont were nothing special, but the unexplained disappearance of his second almost cost him the round. Piotin offered a nasty smile that gave him away when the fight began. Not only that, but someone - most likely that rat Ivo - had swapped his armor and axe with third-rate equipment that was usually equipped for sparring sessions, not a full-out Proving.

The red-haired dwarf felt faint from the blood loss and his helm had been knocked off in the middle of the match, leaving him open to a lot of attacks. Still, he fought through the odds to let out a stubborn yell. Damned if he would give Aeducan the chance to think he was weak.

Piotin gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he worked his mouth in irritation. Damn that Warrior Caste! He had it all down pat: Ivo had taken care of the faulty gear and had doused the insides of Oghren's armor with a small dose of Soldier's Bane, enough to seep into Oghren's skin and weaken the berserker's heavy strikes. Ronus and Renvil were even told to not hold back, to kill the impudent dwarf if given the chance. The King's favor was with them, and the death of an unimportant member of a lower Caste could be shown as an accident no matter what the circumstance.

And the Stone-forsaken blighter had raged past all of it. His squadmates had given their best shots, wielding blade and axe with deadly intent. Kondrat had _ignored_ it all, as if the gaping wounds were nothing more than nug scratches.

There was a reason why berserkers were not allowed to fight in anything save an Honor Proving. Piotin Aeducan had seen them in action before, swinging their weapons in crazed abandon while frothing at the mouth, intent to bring down death to all who stood before them.

Any match with a berserker in it ended up with at least one dwarf dead, and that was in the luckiest of cases. Kondrat was allowed to participate only because he had asked for it as a boon. King Endrin was famous for honoring his word, but many of the nobles had thought Oghren's presence to be headed towards a bloody conclusion.

Surprisingly, nothing of the sort happened. Oghren actually thought through his berserker rage, restraining himself from permanently harming his opponents and even going so far as blocking a fatal strike. If it were anyone but him, Piotin would have actually been impressed. But when the scion of House Kondrat raised his middle finger to his direction, it took all of Piotin's discipline to not tear off his neatly plaited beard.

* * *

Oghren whistled tunelessly as the humans cast their spells on him. Due to the violent nature of Provings and the steady decline of dwarven births, the King would usually requisition mages from the surface to deal with any wounds resulting from the match. The berserker flinched as the icy green of the healing spells dove into his body.

The dwarven resistance to magic meant that a spell had to have at least twice the power to work normally, thus the two mages present. Oghren thought himself unlucky, since none of the humans were women._Proving Master probably told 'em off. Hmph!_ When the healers' work was done, the dwarf hopped out of the stone bench and gave a wave of thanks before going back to the waiting chamber.

Where sodding Aeducan was sodding talking to his sodding Branka! Sod it!

"So, how about it?" The cultured voice of Piotin may have sounded like music to his own ears, but Oghren heard more of a death knell by the time Branka replied. "Oh, I don't know. Is it **that** big, then?"

"What the hell do ye think yer doing, Aeducan?" The words leapt out of Oghren's throat as he stepped between the two, ignoring Branka's protests.

"Just telling your girl that I have a big axe back at my place and asking if she'd like to see it." The noble had a victorious smirk on his face and a ready hand on the handle of his axe.

"Oghren, he said that it was custom-made for his grip alone! I _have_ to see how it's done."

_Damnit, Branka. Why d'you have to be so fuckin' innocent?_

"Yes, Oghren. It'll only take a night or two." Piotin winked at the red-head, clearly baiting him.

"Oh, I don't think so. I'm a quick study, or so they say."

"I bet you are." _That _broke the bronto's back, and Oghren grabbed the collar of Piotin's shirt.

"Hey! What's going on back there?!" The gruff voice of the Proving Master stopped the berserker from pummeling the noble into a black and blue ball. Not only was fighting outside of a Proving not allowed, but a crime committed against a higher caste netted severe consequences.

"See you in the arena, Aeducan." Oghren shoved the dwarf away before encircling an arm protectively against Branka's waist. Piotin sneered before stalking away to don his armor for the next match. Oghren felt his woman's finger poking his chest. "What is it, darlin'?"

"Why won't you let me see his axe, Oghren? He said it had impressive penetrating power." Branka frowned in confusion as Oghren shook with laughter. "I don't understand you warrior types."

* * *

"And now, the most awaited match in this grand tournament! The clash of the cream of the crop, the collision of titans, the highlight of the evening!" Dust covered the Proving Grounds, the noise of the crowd shaking the granite walls. The Trials of Blood was coming to a close, the final match slated for ten bells in the night cycle. Oghren cast his gaze to the highest of the stone balconies and was not disappointed. The royal family had finally come out of their abode to officiate over the victor's celebration.

King Endrin Aeducan was garbed in royal finery, precious stones and metals serving as accessories. At his right hand was Trian, heir-apparent to the throne. The lad was an accomplished warrior for his age, having lead numerous commands with great success.

_Too bad he's as stuck-up as they come and bossy t' boot._

On the King's left side were Roshca and Bhelen, Trian's younger siblings. Bhelen, the youngest of the three, was still a child on the verge of manhood, his blond beard sparse and unbraided. He kept waving at the crowds, but was ignored for the most part. Who needs a third when you already have an heir and a spare? It was Endrin's middle child that drew eyes, though.

Six years younger than Trian, Roshca Aeducan was famous for her beauty and notorious for her attitude. Strong yet female features, full red lips, curves that could make any man mad. The girl almost looked fit enough to be a Queen, if it wasn't for the fact that she acted more like Warrior Caste than a King's daughter. Looking uncomfortably stiff in a green gown that fell to her feet, Roshca couldn't have looked less than the wounded warrior Oghren found in the Deep Roads.

Behind all four Aeducan stood the much-coveted prize: the runic golem. Three times taller than any dwarf, the steel construct's lyrium channels glowed dimly in the shadows of the balcony. Some of the spectators stared at the golem more than the royal family, drinking in the strange sight thirstily.

"On the west side, a berserker hailing from House Kondrat. He has battled his way through many opponents to take his place as a finalist. His axe is sharp and his anger terrible! The savior of Lady Aeducan, Oghreeeeen Kondraaaaat!" The crowd surged in frenzy, whooping and hollering the dwarf's name. Oghren saw Branka surrounded by others of his House. She blew him a kiss, and the berserker caught it with a wink before pressing it to his groin. The blush on Branka's face stood out amongst the sweaty mob around her. _Heh-heh._

"On the east side, the pride of House Aeducan! Few dared challenge him in combat, and all who did fell to his might! He remains undefeated and unbeaten to this day! The Horns of Orzammar! Piotin Aeducaaaaan!"

"Time to kiss the dust, Kondrat." Piotin hefted his greataxe, the runes glinting in the artificial light of Orzammar.

"Don't cry too much when I wipe the floor with your beard, Aeducan." Oghren raised his battered weapon and gaze a roar of defiance.

Healing, like any other magic, had its limits. Torn flesh could be mended, weary muscles could be rejuvenated, and the best of healers could even regenerate body parts to a certain extent. But the body could only take so much before breaking down. Neither of the two dwarves was wounded going into the fight, but it did not mean that they were on equal footing.

Oghren had to beat each and every one of his opponents to submission, not a single noble wishing to disgrace their House and Ancestors by declining a challenge from a lower Caste. Piotin, on the other hand, was feared and respected by his peers. The reputation did its fighting for him most of the time, cowing lesser dwarves into forfeiting their matches. Because of this, the noble had much more energy left than the tired berserker, and it showed from the onset of the match.

Despite the state he was in, Oghren fought on valiantly, matching Piotin blow for blow. Their axes rose and fell in an eerily similar rhythm of blood and sweat. The crowd held their breath, captivated by the violence exhibited by the two warriors.

It seemed to go on for an eternity, the silence broken only by the thud of steel into flesh and the ring of metal meeting metal.

Oghren parried an overhand blow from Piotin, but failed to completely divert the force behind the attack. The enchanted axe ricocheted clumsily off the berserker's guard and headed straight for his unprotected face. The flat of the blade smashed into Oghren's left eye. Stars danced in his vision, and Oghren swung wildly, hoping to fend off his enemy's advance. Piotin backed away from the swing, delivering quick strikes to Oghren's exposed area.

"That all you've got, cloud kisser? You fight a like sodding duster!"

Oghren growled in response, but bit back his anger. He needed to assess the damage done to him before charging in like some fool novice. The berserker pressed his left eye gingerly, keeping his other eye trained on Piotin. _Blood and ashes, I think the bone's caved in! _A slow throb began beating against his head, and Oghren felt the first licks of pain that ended a berserker's rage. Piotin was waiting for him; the blighter seemed content to let him bleed out. The crowd was with him for now, but Oghren knew that nobody liked inaction during a Proving. He had to move, and fast.

Piotin leaned heavily on his axe, making a big show out of waiting for Oghren to recover. _By the Stone, I'm so tired!_ He regulated his breathing, checking himself for any wounds he might have missed. A single chest wound was the worst of the damage, but Piotin had not felt so weary in his whole life. He looked at the injuries that Oghren sustained, and felt a note of dread in his heart. The berserker should be dead from blood loss by now, his wounds far worse than when Ronus and Renvil ganged up on him.

Half of Oghren's face was covered in gore, a happy accident of Piotin's part. He felt the bone give way under his blow, but why was the berserker still standing? Surely he didn't want to die just to get a golem?

"Yield, Kondrat. I don't want to kill needlessly, no matter how useless the dwarf is." Piotin felt the other dwarf's eyes widen. Was it relief? Was the berserker actually thinking to give up? If so, all the better. He didn't want to risk life and limb just to beat some nobody Warrior Caste. He had far bigger things to accomplish. Piotin raised a hand, palm-up in friendly supplication.

"So, how about it? Surrender now, Kondrat. There's no shame in losing to one of your betters."

The red-haired dwarf's eyes seemed to pop out of his broken skull. _Any second now_.

The berserker _laughed_. He laughed as if it were some big joke, as if he wasn't already beaten to an inch of his puny life.

"Yield? I haven't even soddin' started yet!" Oghren bellowed and charged Piotin. The noble tensed, raising his axe to end the foolish berserker's life. Big mistake.

Oghren stopped just outside of Piotin's range, drew back his arm, and **threw** his axe at the noble. Caught off guard by the unorthodox move, Piotin lowered his guard to deflect the deadly projectile. Oghren's axe rebounded off his weapon -

- And sunk into his thigh.

Piotin's scream of pain was cut short by a burly fist connecting with his mouth. He felt a tooth come loose, his ears ringing from the punch. Something grabbed the front of his armor and threw him down ruthlessly. The axe was still embedded in him, and the impact only made it sink deeper. Piotin cried out and pulled at the offending object, only to have a heavy boot connect with his side.

"I yield! I yield!" Piotin attempted to scramble away from the berserker, but Oghren had other plans in mind.

"This is for talking to my girl!" The red-haired dwarf stomped on the precious Aeducan jewels, drawing in a collective moan of empathy from every male in the vicinity. Piotin Aeducan, the Horns of Orzammar, whimpered like a girl before passing out in his own piss.

"The winner of the Trials of Blood, Oghren Kondrat! The Wrath of Orzammar!" The crowd chanted his name, the initial shock of Piotin's emasculation by boot wearing off in the face of Oghren's victory. Those closest to the arena entrances surged towards the berserker like a flood, lifting him up on their shoulders. Oghren could see a familiar face here and there, but could not see Branka.

_That girl never liked much crowds anyways. Must be waitin' back at home. Heh-heh._ The berserker grinned through his wounds, the thought of Branka rewarding his victory with a performance of her own eliciting lecherous thoughts not unwelcome in the least.

One of his fellow berserkers thrust a cold bottle into his hands. "Strong celebrations need strong spirits." The man had shouted out before being swept away by the rest of the sea of dwarves. Oghren gave the bottle a scrutinizing look. He had never drunk anything stronger than ale, afraid that he would turn out to be like his drunkard father, Stone bless him.

_Hirol's Lava Burst, eh? Whelp, why the sod not?_ The drink burned in his throat, liquid courage that dulled the pain and warmed the belly. Oghren looked up at the where the royal family was seated, ignoring the amused expressions on their faces in favor of admiring his prize.

He didn't need a runic golem, anyway. Maybe he should give it to Branka. Stone knows the girl loved tinkering around with her toys. _Heh. Toys._ Oghren grinned, the smile wider this time, and took a second drag of his victor's spoils. Life was good.

* * *

"Branka. Branka! BRANKA! _BRANKA_!" Oghren stumbled through his empty home, eyes bleary and drooping from his all-nighter at Tapster's. "Branka! Sod it, woman! Where in the Stone are you?!" The red-haired dwarf bumped into a post, his large nose meeting the hard stone with a sickening crunch. "FUCK! My _nose_!" The berserker fell flat on his back, his eyes tearing up as he prodded his throbbing nose. The ceiling seemed to swim before him, his watery sight playing tricks on him.

How much had he drunk this time? He planned to go home after the first few pints, but the boys wanted to break in a shipment of West Hill brandy from the surface. Of course, Oghren would never pass up the chance to sample a fine drink or two. The money he coughed up should have been for Branka's Name Day present, but then she'd understand. His wife was probably too busy with her meetings and research to even remember she had a Name Day anyway.

_Hmph, Paragon Branka. Never thought I'd see the day._

It had all happened so unexpectedly too. One day, Branka was dancing around him, shouting about 'smokeless coal'. The next, the sodding deshyrs and King Endrin himself were calling her 'Lady Paragon' and 'Mistress Branka'. _Not bad for a woman from the Mining Caste._ A lot of people from his House didn't support the fact that their best warrior was marrying below his caste.

Oghren didn't give one fuck for the old farts that headed House Kondrat. He was a champion in Orzammar, he was famous, and he was in love. Of course, once news of Branka's Paragonhood became public news, everyone in House Kondrat assimilated into House Branka, all of them grabbing the chance to elevate themselves to Noble Caste.

Everyone except old Oghren, that is.

The Memories forbade spouses to belong to the same House, be it by blood or by adoption. So, in a rather twisted turn of events, Oghren Kondrat became the Head of House Kondrat. A House where only he belonged to. Finally managing to sit up, the dwarf massaged his temples, cursing his hangover to the Void and back. The lack of heirs wasn't because of a lack of effort.

No matter how hard they tried, Branka just wouldn't get knocked up, so no chances of little Oghrens existed. And now she was gone, missing like the rest of his - _her_ - House. Try as he might to find some sense to things, Oghren's mind ached too much to think. "Damnit, Branka. Where are you?"

Over the years, marriage to Branka had turned sour and stifling. First, it had been the trouble with conceiving, then the Paragonhood. The sweet, shy woman turned into a bitter figurehead obsessed with advancing her accomplishments in the field of smithing. Branka was never one to rest on her laurels, but it seemed that the discovery that made her a Paragon only served to turn her passion into an all-consuming ambition. Shortly after, Oghren found himself staying at Tapster's more and more – even for weeks at a time – trying to escape the reality that his blushing bride was no longer the same person. Instead, every time the couple would be together physically, Oghren and Branka would find something to fight about. Sometimes it led to hot, angry make-up sex.

More often than not, it left Oghren bruised and battered inside and out.

Slowly rising to his feet, Oghren made his way to the master bedroom. He had hoped to make amends on Branka's Name Day, maybe give her a nice present or something like that. He had even cleaned up a little: his unruly beard brushed and plaited, his hair washed and combed back. Hell, Oghren even took a bath, for crying out loud! The dwarf opened the door to the room. Still no Branka.

Instead, a note written in her precise handwriting was pinned to the far wall. Oghren staggered towards the piece of parchment and ripped it free of the nail. He squinted hard at his wife's tiny writing. It took a minute or two for him to read its contents, an hour to digest the meaning, and no time at all to find himself back in Tapster's.

"Gimme the strong stuff, barkeep." Oghren's gruff voice seemed hollow to his ears, but nobody paid attention to it. The bottle of Dragon's Piss slid to his waiting hands. The berserker waved off the glass offered to him, pulling off the cover and drinking the liquor straight from its container.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Roshca Aeducan was having a _very_ bad day.

It had taken her the better part of three months to convince her father to let Trian take her on a routine patrol into the Deep Roads. It had been no small amount of negotiating, wheedling, and downright begging. Thankfully, her father had relented. On one condition. That she spend an entire day judging minor cases brought before the King.

The task itself was not an unfamiliar one. She had done this kind of administrative work before, mostly those involving the Warrior Caste and their disputes. Father may have disapproved of her closeness with lower castes, but admitted that such proximity gave her an insight that most did not possess. She had not needed to fear any misstep in technicality or judgment, since Bhelen had generously offered to advise her throughout the day. Her heart warmed at the thought of her younger brother.

Soft-spoken and helpful, it always puzzled her why Bhelen did not actively seek out duties of his own. Instead, he would merely assist Trian and her father if requested. For a dwarf of the Noble Caste, Bhelen was unusually private in his affairs.

A meaningful cough brought her thoughts back to the present situation before her. The judgment of Oghren Kondrat.

She had once owed the dwarf her life, the memory of him facing an ogre head-on playing in an endless loop in her mind. Looking down at him from her elevated chair, she wondered if this was the same man. The Oghren from her memory looked the part of a proud warrior: green eyes flashing with righteous fury, wild red hair that burned in the dim light of the Deep Roads, muscles clenching as he wielded his greataxe with bestial strength. The Oghren before her was a shadow of her savior.

Two palace guards held him upright as he swayed on his feet. Clearly, the berserker was drunk, the stench of cheap ale wafting towards her nose smelling like a plague. The green eyes were dull and unfocused, the left eye drooping permanently. The beard was anything but clean, tangled and grimy and filled with things Roshca never wanted to touch.

Age and an unhealthy lifestyle had caught up with him, replacing his hard muscles with soft fat. Oghren Kondrat held himself like a dead man, and it was no mystery as to why.

A year where you were the laughingstock of Orzammar destroyed a man of honor faster than any blade of poison can. _So, it has come to this._ Roshca would have been content to strip the dwarf of his right to bear arms and banish him from the residential area of the Diamond Quarter. However, circumstances dictated otherwise. It was one thing to kill an opponent in an Honor Proving. It was quite another to maim the dead body of a deshyr's son in front of his entire House.

The punishment she would have to give was greater than death, but it was the only thing she could do to save Oghren from the assassins of House Meino. Roshca owed her savior that much, at least.

"Oghren Kondrat. For the crime of murdering above your caste in an Honor Proving demanding only first blood, you are hereby stripped of caste and rank. You will be escorted to the surface in two days' time, enough for you to gather your things and say your farewells. The Stone has rejected you, Oghren. May you find mercy somewhere else."


	8. The Crow

_AN: Hey, guys! It's been a while since the last chapter of TotMe. Damn final exams and their demands for blood, sweat, and time! So, it's gonna be the last of my prologues, and then it's off to the Fifth Blight and DA:O. Pretty please, R&R. It makes all the effort worth it._ ;)

* * *

Mistress Emilletrice was angry. Fortunately for Zevran Arainai, dishwasher-cum-serving boy, the mistress was attending to one of her many regulars, a portly man with a ridiculous moustache. So, instead of the usual beating by cane, the blond elf boy was allowed to clean up his mess and run off to his room without any supper. If he was lucky, the mistress would forget about his transgression and let him off the hook. The portly man was a good tipper.

Zevran raced up the back stairs of the _Signora Nascosto_, slipping past perfumed prostitutes and smelly men. A left at the first intersection, and he was inside his room. If one could call it that. There was a bed, a washbasin, and enough space to stand in, but there were holes in the wall and the floor, and no windows to give even the smallest of lights. Zevran's room was originally a storage space for contraband items, before he was taken in by Mistress Emilletrice.

Sighing in relief, the elf inched his way towards the direction of the washbasin. Even elven night-vision could only do so much, and the floor was uneven and littered with trash. His hands found the cool metal of the washbasin, and Zevran splashed the tepid water to his face and chest, careful to conserve as much as he can. His water ration was not due until next week, and Mistress Emilletrice always caught him when he tried to steal.

"Freshening up, _bel ragazzo_?" Rough hands grabbed at Zevran's waist, pulling him out of his tiny room. The elf knew better than to struggle against his captor's grip.

Francesco liked to play rough.

Zevran felt himself being turned around, and knew what he would see even before his eyes adjusted to the light. The bartender would be drunk or high on madcap, his eyes red and his black hair disheveled. He would smile; teeth yellow and rotten. And then, he would reach out and –

Francesco's knuckles crashed into Zevran's nose, and he could feel the cartilage break even before the pain registered in his mind. He fell on his bottom, eyes swimming with tears as he looked up at the bartender.

"Who did you tell?" Francesco was surprisingly sober, which frightened Zevran more than it should. The man would only seek him out when inebriated. An excuse for forcing himself on an elf, perhaps? Zevran did not wish to know.

"Wha- What do you mean, _signore_?" Francesco's boot slammed into his face, digging into the broken nose mercilessly. Zevran cried out like a puppy, though he knew no one would come to help. Francesco always made sure that the hallway was deserted whenever he had business with 'the whoreson'.

"Don't lie to me, _cazzo impudente_! I heard Innocenza and Matilda giggling at me behind my back, saying how 'I should keep down the racket unless Emilletrice finds out my dirty little secret'! It was you, wasn't it? _Pompini puttana_!"

Zevran was stunned into silence. Why in the Maker's name would he admit to anything between the two of them? One, the _Signora Nascosto_ was a whorehouse, you either dealt with forcible clients or they dealt with you. Two, Mistress Emilletrice was Francesco's brother, and would sooner run him out of the place than face the fact that her sibling preferred 'dallying' with elves. Francesco was either too stupid to see sense or the madcap had already ruined what little there was of his mind.

Zevran felt the pressure on his face disappear, but the relief he felt was short-lived once Francesco flipped him on his belly. Terror laced liberally with disgust – a feeling he was all too familiar with – turned his insides into ice as his tormentor ripped open the backside of his trousers.

Francesco was going to fuck him.

Not in the darkness of his room, where shame and hurt could be hidden in welcome shadow, but outside the corridor. In front of all who would happen to be passing by. The most random thought popped into Zevran's mind right before Francesco consummated the deed.

_I'm going to have to sew this up by myself after._

A grunt; and Francesco was inside him, slamming into him again and again in a frenzied rhythm. The man was unmindful of Zevran's stifled screams. On the contrary, the bartender seemed to enjoy the act of giving pain. Zevran tasted the salt in his tears as they rolled down his cheeks. He almost lost consciousness when Francesco wrenched his head up by the hair and rammed deeper into him. He could feel the blood trickle down his thighs. Zevran was used to this type of treatment, but no amount of frequent usage could change the fact that he was still a child and Francesco was a large man.

The end was thankfully sooner than usual. An intense crescendo from Francesco's hips, and the man spent himself inside Zevran, a guttural moan escaping from cracked lips. The elf remained still as the bartender re-laced his breeches. He did not think he could endure a second performance.

"That'll teach you to shut that mouth of yours, whore." Francesco spat on Zevran's face before strutting down the darkened hallway, ego and pride restored.

It would be a while before Zevran mustered the strength to move again, but strong hands scooped him up and carried him to another room before he could. The elf shut his eyes, certain that it was another client whose tastes ran parallel to Francesco. But, instead of being thrown down on a bed and being taken advantage of, Zevran felt himself sink into a hot tub of water. He hissed as the liquid made contact with his wounds, but welcomed a chance to have Francesco's work cleaned off of him.

He opened his eyes as someone began scrubbing his back. The 'client' was an elf, and an odd one at that. Elves did not wear dark leather armor and carry weapons about their person. Elves did not have eyes that bespoke of dark deeds and violent means. But then, this was no ordinary elf. His belt buckle was shaped in the emblem of the Antivan Crows, the notorious assassin guild that held Antiva in the palm of its hand. Whatever the elf had planned for Zevran, it was bound to be no good.

"Be at ease, little one. Or else Rinna here will have to slit your throat from ear to ear for annoying her." Zevran turned his head and saw who was washing his back. The girl was about the same age as he, and was completely naked. If Zevran had not been raised by whores, he would have blushed to the tips of his blond hair. Instead, he politely averted his gaze and instead met the eyes of the elven Crow.

"For a child, he has remarkable control." The naked girl chuckled before stepping out of the tub to wrap a towel around her lithe form.

"I'm not a child; I'm almost ten years old - !" Zevran regretted the words as soon as they tumbled out of his mouth. The girl's hand snapped out and pressed against his broken nose.

"That makes you older than me. Yet still, you're a child."

"Rinna, enough." The Crow spoke quietly in a voice that brooked no argument. The dark-haired girl – Rinna – snorted before releasing Zevran's broken nose.

"What do you want with m-me?" Zevran cowered, hands instinctively covering his face in case of another attack from this Rinna.

The Crow sighed, yet made no move to punish the elf. "It is better if you get cleaned up first. Rinna, if you will."

Thankfully, Rinna kept her temper in check this time around, and Zevran soon found himself seated across the elven Crow in the main room, dressed in clean clothes and being fed a filling fish stew. A human boy joined them while Rinna was dressing his wounds, decked out in leather armor and sporting a small scar across his chin. The boy, who was introduced as Taliesen, was a bit older than Zevran, yet carried a dangerous aura about him. It turned out that both he and Taliesen were the elven Crow's favored apprentices.

"There is no proper term for them, but I prefer to call them _Corto Corvo_. My little Crowlings." The elven Crow smiled patronizingly at the two children, like a father would look upon his son and daughter. Rinna preened at the attention. Taliesen snorted good-naturedly.

"Allow me to regale you with tales of the Antivan Crows, young elf." Zevran was about to protest, since it was almost dinnertime and Mistress Emilletrice would need him to be at the kitchens any minute, but was overrode when the elven Crow started speaking. Though Zevran did not recognize most of the names of nobility and was unfamiliar with the historical events that took place long before he was born, he could not help but be drawn into the words of the Crow, masterfully woven to paint pictures of ambition and intrigue, of daggers both political and actual. By the time the Crow finished, it was well into the night.

"Spoken like a former bard, _Maestro_." Rinna nodded approvingly at her mentor. Taliesen grunted in assent.

"But, what do I have to do with any of this?" Though he was grateful for being fed and patched up, Zevran knew better than to trust anyone from the Crows. They were not known for their kindness, and this particular one would obviously have to be repaid. But by what, I cannot imagine. The smile disappeared from the Crow's face, replaced by a look of cold calculation. Zevran squirmed under his gaze and held his breath until the Crow glanced at his two apprentices.

"Opinions, Rinna?"

"He's too soft. But there is promise in that, I think."

"Taliesen?"

The boy did not speak, but Zevran could see the satisfaction in his eyes as he regarded the elf. He shuddered as an unfamiliar sensation swept over him.

"Alright, then. Zevran Arainai, we have come to take you into the Order of The Antivan Crows. Do you accept our offer?"

Zevran stayed silent for a moment, weighing his options. He could refuse the offer and stay in the _Signora Nascosto_ with the Mistress and the prostitutes. With Francesco. Yes, he could remain Francesco's 'dirty little secret', but how long would he survive that? It was only a matter of time when the bartender's rough handling would turn fatal. It was either that or being run off by Mistress Emilletrice. And how long did he expect to survive on the streets?

He looked at the Crows, all three silently waiting for his answer. They were wealthy, powerful, and above all, beyond reach of the law. If he were a Crow, he could do anything he wanted to, and nobody could stop him. Not even Francesco. He looked at Rinna and Taliesen, as young as him and far more beautiful, yet harder and older than he would ever be if he did not take the offer. Really, what choice did he have?

"I accept your offer."

The elven Crow smirked. "Good. Call me Master Pietro."

* * *

Pietro di Aniello, former Orlesian bard and Seventh Crow Master, was a patient elf. However, he found that he was close to losing his patience with the headache presented before him. Three headaches, he corrected himself. He expected such mischief to be Zevran's doing, with Rinna aiding and abetting him at every turn. Shockingly, it turned out that Taliesen was not as disciplined as he had come to believe, since the lad was embroiled with this particular screw-up.

"And why in the Maker's name did the three of you think you could take on Ignacio's cell all by yourselves? With no sanctioned approval from your superior?" Pietro prided himself on the control he had on his emotions, but anger colored the usually bland tone of his voice.

The shortest of the three Crows stepped forward at his question, a cocksure smirk emblazoned across his face. It had been a long time since he had stumbled upon Zevran in the _Signora Nascosto,_ and the difference was clear-cut from the first glance. Gone was the stuttering serving boy who spent nights as a dirty man's plaything. In his place stood a handsome blond Crow with golden brown skin and tattoos swirling all over his lean body. Everything the boy did – from the way he walked to the way he breathed – was a study in the art of seduction. If Pietro were not as old as he was, he would have found himself being attracted to his young charge.

Thankfully, he was not.

"Hold your tongue, Arainai." Zevran froze with his mouth partly open, as if he taken aback at the venom in Pietro's voice. "I don't have the time or the patience to deal with your _rifiuti_." Did the boy actually expect to be rewarded for his actions? Zevran must be getting too big for his boots, if that were the case. "Rinna, report."

If Rinna assumed the same behavior as Arainai did, Pietro could not promise that no harm would befall all three of them, favored pupils or no. To her credit, Rinna managed to look penitent while maintaining her dignity, something Pietro prided on teaching her. In many ways, Rinna was still the naked girl in the tub: obedient and willing to please. Pietro noticed the swelling of her lips and the messiness of her raven-black hair with disapproval. There were things said about her relationship with Arainai. Things that he did not want to go beyond the simple swapping of bodily fluids.

"_Sì_, _Maestro_ Pietro. We were in the middle of the reconnaissance mission assigned to us when Crow Master Ignacio and his cell sprung their ambush. It appeared as though they were hired by the mark to defend his estate from unwelcome visitors. Our handler and superior at that time, Kashiel, tried to strike a deal with Ignacio and his men –"

"Which unfortunately involved trading our lives for his, the _pazzo_." It seemed as if Arainai could not keep his mouth shut for so long. Pietro twitched his fingers, and Taliesen coldcocked the blond elf from behind, knocking Zevran down.

"_Mi dispiace_, Zev. Orders." Taliesen was a man of few words, most of which pleased Pietro. "Continue, Rin." The glare that Rinna sent the human's way served to confirm Pietro's suspicions.

_Ah, it seems these trysts with Arainai are becoming more troubling._

"As Zevran said, Kashiel tried to sell us out. So, instead of following his commands, I cut his throat and took command –"

"You mean Arainai took control of the cell, no?" Petro smiled humorlessly at the prone assassin. "Do not think to fool me, _Corto Corvo_. I have raised the three of you from nothing. You cannot lie to Pietro. I know these things even before you came inside my office."

His words seemed to trigger Rinna's infamous anger. "Then you know what happened next, _Maestro_. You know that we stood toe to toe with Ignacio's cell and won. Zev –" The slip of her tongue silenced the outburst.

"'Zev' _what_, my dear?" Pietro spoke just above a whisper, but the smug satisfaction could be seen in each uttered word.

"Zevran Arainai defeated Ignacio Carone in single combat." Taliesen's dry words took out most of the impact, yet Pietro was stunned at the turn of events. He knew how quickly Zevran progressed in his assassin skills, but to defeat a Master at the ripe age of twenty-five was unheard of.

"And how do I know that the three of you did not simply make this up to avoid punishment from me?" Pietro hoped that his three pupils did not see the uncertainty he felt. Any sign of weakness from him, and his Crowlings would be out of his grasp.

"Ask Ignacio yourself, then. He'll probably be limping for the rest of his natural life." Arainai was already on his feet, hazel eyes barely hiding a thunderstorm of anger. Zevran may be combat-ready, yet the other aspects of his training lacked a certain finesse that would have to be remedied. And soon.

Pietro pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought on how to solve his predicament. He, of all people, knew that a Crow who was able to defeat a Master was well on the way to becoming one himself, having come into his own in a similar manner. For that fact alone, he was proud to be Zevran's mentor. However, the boy was growing too confident in his skills, boasting not with his words, but with his actions and the way he eyed his fellow Crows with contempt. If Arainai managed to become a Master, Pietro could not control him, and would only be ridiculed by the other factions if he tried allying with the lad.

_Whoever heard of a mentor treating his student as his equal?_

No, if someone was to be a Master, it would have to be Rinna. Or at least, that was his primary plan for the Rinna he had already broken so long ago in so many ways. A simple twitch of his eyebrow, and the girl would come running to his side. Until now. Somehow, Arainai had managed to undo all that. Pietro blamed himself for allowing the fraternization between the two to come so far. He was never one to restrict his Crows' opportunity for pleasure. Maker knew that most of their lives were too short for such limitations. Nevertheless, what's done is done.

His gaze fell upon on Taliesen. Taliesen, least of his favorites. Taliesen the Silent, the unfeeling machine who followed orders to the letter. The boy always seemed to be obscured by the genius of Arainai and Rinna, his reliability failing to impress Pietro when compared to Zevran's dagger work and Rinna's poisons. _Perhaps this is the answer I seek_? Looking closely, Pietro sees the dynamic that had eluded his notice in the recent years. He sees the longing glances Taliesen throws to Rinna. Or perhaps it is for Arainai? Yes, the solution was right in front of him. Jealousy, like all other poisons, grows deadlier through the passage of time.

"Very well, you three are forgiven. However, there is one more mission for the night. Zevran, you will lead the cell. Do not fail me."

Tomorrow, Pietro will see Zevran Arainai undone, Rinna dead, and Taliesen on his way to becoming a Master. Pietro never fails.

* * *

At thirty years of age, Zevran Arainai was the happiest he could be.

True, he would miss his old friend and lover's induction as a Crow master, Ferelden smelled of wet dog and their excrement, and he hadn't had sex in weeks; but there was a spring in his step that he thought would be forever gone. Taliesen could wait.

The thought of Rinna's death still hurt, but the stabbing pain in his heart had gone down to a dull throb that he could easily drown with drink, drugs, and fucking. It had been almost five years since he took a contract for the Crows. The only reason that he still drew breath was that Crow Master Pietro wished him to live.

I_f what I have been doing can even be called that, then I suppose it is so._

Pulling out a small mirror from his pack, he regarded his reflection. He had let himself go during the past five years, and it took quite an effort on both his side and Taliesen's to bring back the old Zevran. Shaggy blond locks were styled into immaculately clean braids that accentuated his handsome face. A few months training in the sun had hardened his atrophied muscles and gotten rid of the obscene paunch that Taliesen hated so much. Skin once pale and leathery was now a lustrous golden brown thanks to the liberal application of oils and perfumes. The scant body hair that Zevran had grown was trimmed to the most appealing form to be had. It had taken a very long time before Taliesen let Zevran out of their shared quarters.

Zevran's smile grew brittle once he realized that the mirror he was using once belonged to Rinna. The dull ache threatened to grow, but was hindered by the toxins in the elf's system. Zevran realized with a start that he had taken too much alcohol and drugs. A moment later, he found that he no longer cared.

An elf only dies once after all.

Zevran sank into a crouch, relishing in the feel of his fitting leather armor. If he was lucky - and he often was, in a sense - the Grey Wardens would be coming around the corner any second now. The clanking of armor proved his suspicions right, and the assassin sent out a silent prayer in Rinna's memory before uttering what he hoped would be his last words.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

_Happy Name Day, Zevran. _

* * *

_Signora Nascosto _– Antivan for 'The Hidden Lady'

_bel ragazzo – _Antivan for 'pretty boy'

_signore –_ Antivan for 'sir'

_cazzo impudente – _Antivan for 'impudent fuck'

_Pompini puttana _– Antivan for 'cock-sucking whore'

_Corto Corvo _– Antivan for 'Little Crow'

_rifiuti _– Antivan for 'bullshit'

_Sì _– Antivan for 'yes'

_pazzo –_ Antivan for 'lunatic'

_Mi dispiace _– Antivan for 'I'm sorry'

_Maestro – _Antivan for 'master'


	9. Guide

_AN: So, I've been looking over the prologues a couple of times, and it seems to me that the timeline remains a little unclear. So here's the order of the prologues, in case things get a little too vague. Hope it helps!_

* * *

**A Day In The Lives of Wynne, Greagoir, and Irving **

**.**

**.**

**Wynne Loses Her Son **

**.**

**.**

**Oghren Wins The Trials Of Blood**

**.**

**.**

**Zevran Joins The Crows **

**.**

**.**

**Oghren Loses Branka **

**.**

**.**

**Wynne As A Teacher**

**.**

**.**

**Morrigan and The Mirror **

**.**

**.**

**Alistair's Unseen Visitor **

**.**

**.**

**Alexion Gets His Tabris Tattoos **

**.**

**.**

**Alexion and Adaia Talk About Elves and Shems **

**.**

**.**

**Imekari Becomes Sten **

**.**

**.**

**Leliana and Marjolaine, Bards of Orlais**

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**.**

**********Zevran On His Ill-Fated Mission **

**.**

**.**

**The Death of Adaia**

**.**

**.**

**Morrgan, Flemeth, And Notions of Dragons **

**.**

**.**

**Leliana Betrayed **

**.**

**.**

**Morrigan's Ritual Deflowering **

**.**

**.**

**The Templar Tournament**

**.**

**.**

**The Exile Of Oghren Kondrat **

**.**

**.**

**Leliana In Lothering **

**.**

**.**

**Sten's Mission **

**.**

**.**

**Zevran's Death Wish**


	10. A Complicated Beginning

_AN: Hi, guys! Another chapter of ToTME fresh off MS Word. Now, before anything else, a simple observation on how people write Alistair. I, for one, find some startling similarities between our resident ex-Templar and a certain ninja named Naruto Uzumaki. Orphaned since birth, check. Ostracized by peers, check. Eager to belong somewhere, triple check. But I've rarely seen anyone writing an Alistair whose experiences turned him a little more jaded and a little less foolish. So, without further ado, I introduce to you: Semi-Hardened!Alistair!_

* * *

Jory suspected that Wardens must eat a lot of meat.

The blunted edge of a sword cracked across Ser Jory's chin with inhuman force, sending the bulky man sprawling to the ground. He shook his head as spots danced before his eyes.

"My point, I think."

Jory looked up at his sparring partner, the sun overhead throwing the figure into shadow. Alistair offered his hand to the Highever local. Not for the first time since the beginning of the match, Jory marveled at the strength in the Warden's grip. Jory was no weakling – it took more than a normal man's body strength to wield a greatsword the way he did – and was in arguably the best shape of his life, but he couldn't compare with the blonde Warden's physical prowess.

"Thanks, Ser Alistair."

"It's just Alistair, if it pleases you. Again?"

Hauling himself to his feet with the Warden's help, Jory picked up his dropped practice sword. It wasn't easy to face Warden Alistair and not be intimidated. Though Jory was roughly the same girth as the former Templar, he barely reached Alistair's chest. Not only that, there was something terrifying in his single-minded stare, a dark intensity that made Jory's throat turn dry in fear.

Alistair's dulled weapon flashed, and Jory barely caught the strike with the flat of his blade, turning it aside before bringing down the greatsword in a brutal cleave. In a fluid motion, Alistair had turtled behind his shield. The attack rebounded against the smooth oak, leaving Jory open to counter-attack. Instead of lashing out with the blunt metal, Alistair shoved his way into Jory's guard, the shield pushing uncomfortably against leather plate.

_Maker's breath, he's too strong!_

Jory tried to pry Alistair's shield off of him, the Warden refusing to budge an inch despite the knight's best efforts. In a final move of desperation, Jory reversed the grip on his greatsword and stabbed down towards Alistair's shield arm.

Just before Jory's weapon connected, Alistair disengaged. Too fast for Jory's eyes to follow, an alternating assault with sword and shield struck his arms and chest. An involuntary groan escaped him, and the knight from Highever sunk to his knees. His body felt like it was on fire, the blows he had taken accumulating past his pain threshold.

"Wow. That was _incredible_."

Despite the throbbing from the many hits, Jory managed to raise his head to give the elf messenger his best glare. The well-dressed elf flushed, remembering his manners.

"Er, message for Warden Alistair and Warden Recruit Jory." The elf cleared his throat, waiting for Alistair to help Jory to his feet before continuing. "The King sends word that Warden-Commander Duncan is approaching Ostagar."

That single sentence seemed to transform Alistair, replacing the frighteningly powerful warrior with a bright-eyed young man beside himself with excitement. Jory could have sworn that he heard Alistair emit a high-pitched squeak before he dragged Jory, aching parts and all, out of the sparring area of the Warden encampment.

"Done beating ser knight to death, Alistair?"

Daveth, the other Warden Recruit, fell into step with the two warriors. It had only been a few weeks since he had made the rogue's acquaintance, but Jory found himself hating his fellow recruit more and more with each passing day. Not only was the man a cutpurse and a thief, but Daveth seemed to take pleasure in annoying him at every opportunity.

"I learned much from Ser Alistair, Daveth. I daresay that you could not claim the same."

The thief touched the side of his face, bringing attention to the red handprint under his scruffy beard. _Probably got that from one of the female soldiers. Maker knows a camp follower wouldn't say no to good coin._

"Aye, but at least it don't take an hour's lynching to get the point. Ain't that right, Alistair?"

The former Templar cocked his head to the side as he met Jory's sideways glance, a curious look in his eyes. Ser Jory knew that challenging a Warden was beyond his ability, but expected to stand a chance against the most junior of the Order. He couldn't have been more wrong. Alistair seemed to notice Jory's discomfort and turned away.

"You two pull each other's hair later, okay? Duncan's waiting for us."

If he hadn't accompanied Alistair and Daveth , Jory would not have believed the rumors that would circulate around camp later. He knew Duncan was trekking all over Ferelden in search of individuals with the potential to join the Grey Wardens. Daveth had even begun a betting pool with some of the Wardens as to what sort of recruit the Commander would bring. Despite his initial misgivings, Jory also made a modest wager of his own, placing ten coppers on a mage from the Circle of Magi. Nobody expected Duncan to bring in a cocky elf dragging a huge bloody sack behind him.

"I killed an arl's son for raping my cousin."

"You… _what_?"

Apparently the cocky elf was also a murderer, and proud of it. Jory hoped that he didn't look quite as flabbergasted as King Cailan was. When Duncan butted into the short conversation, the elf turned away from the king with a derisive snort. Jory reddened in indignation. The knife-ear dared disrespect the Ferelden Crown? He should be cut down where he stood!

"Thedas to Jory? Hellooo."

Jory was so overcome by emotion that he did not notice the elf strolling towards them. He caught the questioning looks on Alistair and Daveth's faces and tried his best to rein in his flaring temper. Jory looked down on the elf – Alexion – and stuck out his hand.

"My name is Ser Jory of Highever. It's a pleasure to meet you, Alexion."

Instead of shaking his hand, the elf continued staring at Jory's face as if it were some sort of puzzle. Seeing that the third Warden Recruit had no intention of accepting his handshake, Jory lowered his arm and stared right back. The elf's arrogant cyan eyes flashed predatorily, and Jory felt a shiver run down his spine.

"You don't think much of elves, Jory of Highever."

Like most of his kind, this Alexion had a slender frame and delicate features. But that was as far as the similarities went. Where most elves were short and soft, Alexion was as tall as Jory and had a wiry build that bespoke of at least minimal combat training. Where an elf would avert his gaze and mumble an apology, Alexion stood his ground with a defiant mien and spoke with a compelling authority usually reserved for scholars and nobles. Oddly enough, Alexion's ears were as not pointed and prominent like an average elf. A slight growing out of his hair and the elf would have passed as a pretty human.

_If it weren't for the Denerim accent and that tattoo around his right eye, I would've pegged him as Dalish_.

"Why would you say such a thing, ser elf?" In spite of his efforts, Jory's tone sounded cold instead of professionally cordial. The elf grinned as if to say, _Aha! Got you now!_

"If you weren't staring down your nose at me as if I were shit you'd have to wipe off your foot, I'd never have known." Alexion seemed to have a knack for shocking people into silence. The bluntness of his statement left Jory slack-jawed and the rest wide-eyed. Before the elf could give him an aneurysm or run him through, Alistair came to Jory's rescue.

"Wonderful. I just _love _how the Blight brings people together. Don't you, Alexion?"

The elf switched his attention to the blonde Warden, an uncertain look on his face. To his credit, Alistair did not flinch from the intensity of Alexion's gaze, amber orbs calmly meeting icy-blue. Daveth coughed, and the tension dissolved as if it were never there.

"You are a very strange _shem_." Jory stiffened at the elven insult, but Alistair simply shrugged placidly.

"I see you four are already getting acquainted with one another." Duncan's warm voice brought back the boy-Alistair, complete with breathless questions and excited fidgets. Before Alistair could shoot off a Hey-Duncan-how-was-recruitment-what-happened-in-De nerim-did-you-bring-anything-for-me-Jory-challenge d-me-to-a-spar-and-I-won, the swarthy Warden-Commander raised his hand in a silencing gesture. Alistair shut his mouth with a loud snap that made Jory flinch. He hoped the Junior Warden didn't break his jaw.

"We will have time to speak later, Alistair. For now, I want you to tour Alexion around Ostagar. I don't want our third Warden Recruit to be seen wandering around _lost_." A pointed look at the elf, who smirked flippantly at Duncan. "Take Jory and Daveth with you, I need to speak with the Wardens." A nod at Jory and Daveth, and the Commander of the Grey strode off.

"Well, not exactly my idea of a warm reunion." Alistair had a look of dejection on his face, and the thought of a kicked puppy popped into Jory's head. Oblivious, the blonde Warden jerked his head towards the bustling camp.

"Alexion, if you will."

An incredulous expression from the latest Warden Recruit. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be the one leading us?"

"Oh. Right, this way then. What's in the sack, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, it's just the armor I stripped off of dead Denerim guards." Alexion shook the burlap, and the contents clanked against each other.

"Charming. Daveth, why don't you and Ser Killing Spree here talk about nice things like robbery and daggers?"

Daveth eyed the grinning elf suspiciously, and then recognition dawned on his face. "You Varel's boy, aren't you? He told me 'bout the Bryland heist."

Alexion chuckled, the traces of his hostility from the confrontation with Jory long gone. "Right on all counts 'cept one. Varel's _my _boy." The look of awe from the human rogue confirmed Jory's worst nightmare.

_Great, a smooth-talking elf thief who's shadier than Daveth. Just my Maker-damned luck._

* * *

Ostagar was _huge_.

Alexion liked to think of himself as a rather worldly city elf. The jobs he took after his mother's death involved getting into places in Denerim that no normal elf had access to. Which was exactly the point, if he thought about it. No matter how many times Alexion traversed the streets of Denerim, it would have been as far as he got. Until Duncan conscripted him two weeks ago, Alexion had never even stepped a foot outside his filthy, overcrowded watering hole of a city.

Ostagar was an abandoned Tevinter ruin, but the sheer open space and the towering remains of Imperium architecture overwhelmed the elf. Alexion held his breath as they crossed the stone bridge that spanned the length of a large chasm between two forested cliffs. Behind a calm façade, the elf was a boiling pot of excitement and nervousness. He had barely contained himself when he met the king, and only then because of the tall human's blatant idiocy.

_"So you're from Denerim. It pleases me to see someone from the same birthplace. Tell me, how does my city fare?"_

The memory of the king's innocent question set Alexion's teeth on edge. They may have been born in Denerim, but their lives were as disparate as sky and mud. Elves were beneath the notice of kings and nobles, except when they needed something of them.

_I've learnt that lesson all too well._

By the time they reached the bridge's edge, the wonderment in Alexion had been tempered by an anger that seemed so easy to summon. Under the first archway before the main camp, two human soldiers stood guard. Surprisingly, both saluted him in snappy military fashion.

Daveth chuckled. "Probably wondering why the _shems_ aren't spitting at your feet, Lex?"

The elf nodded, making the dark-haired thief snicker again. Despite being a human, Daveth had an easy way that made Alexion less leery of him. Daveth and Duncan, and probably that daft _shem_ Alistair, were humans that did not make Alexion's hackles raise; a miracle all in itself.

"Around the time me and Jory here arrived at Ostagar, there was this elven Warden. Name of Tamarel: good chap, easy on the eyes, quietest fellow you ever saw. Anyways, this sergeant was chewing 'im out for carrying weapons and not following orders. Don't know how the idiot missed the Grey Warden insignia on the guy's chest and I ain't asking. Anyways, Tamarel straight up _snapped_, impaled the sergeant on his own sword and ripped him apart with his bare hands. Taught men here to walk a little lighter 'round pointy-eared Wardens."

Alexion looked dubiously at Alistair and Jory, unsure whether to take Daveth's yarn as truth. Once the two confirmed that there was indeed such an incident involving an elven Warden of the name, Alexion asked how Tamarel was punished.

"He wasn't. Cailan told Duncan that Senior Warden Tamarel was well within his rights, since there were witnesses that said the sergeant drew his weapon first. Of course, there were a few mumbles from the nobles, but nobody stepped forward to challenge the king's decision."

Alexion started to ask another question of Alistair, but the right side of his face started to throb. The three humans' eyebrows shot up when the tattoo around Alexion's right eye began to glow.

"Don't panic. It does that sometimes." Daveth and Jory nodded slowly, clearly disbelieving Alexion's explanation. Alistair came closer, sniffing the air like a mabari.

"It… smells like lyrium. Impossible! Lyrium's poison for everyone except dwarves and mages."

Alexion frowned at the Warden's words. He knew what lyrium was, having seen it in liquid and powder form during a few of his jobs. But he never knew that his tattoo was made using the stuff. He traced the swirls and spirals of his shimmering facial markings, and felt another throb.

"It's coming from over there." Alexion broke away from the others, turning right as the path split in two. A short distance away in a small clearing, three robed figures were waving their arms in increasingly convoluted gestures. A colorless mist cascaded down their bodies. Alexion felt the painless throbbing increase. Two armored warriors stationed behind the clustered people noticed his proximity and thrust out their hands in a forbidding motion.

"Stay where you are, ser elf. The mages are currently within the Fade and must not be disturbed."

Alistair caught up with Alexion, his eyes bulging out in alarm as he saw the brightness of the lyrium tattoo. Simultaneously, the two blondes noticed one of the Templars narrow his eyes in suspicion. Alistair reacted with more speed than Alexion expected. Pulling the elf along, he hurried away in quick, measured steps.

"Thank you for the warning, ser Templars! We'll be off then, if you don't mind."

As soon as they were at a safe distance, with Jory and Daveth trailing a little behind, Alexion pried his arm out of the Warden's grip. "What the Void is wrong with you?" Alexion wanted to curse the idiot _shem _for his callous treatment, but was cut off by Alistair's whispered explanation.

"I wouldn't get too close to the Templars with half your face glowing like that, Alexion." Alistair looked around before he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Anyone with a pinch of common sense can see that your markings merely have the _influence_ of magic and are not its _symptom_. Sadly, common sense is something that escapes most in the Templar Order. They would have put you to the sword with nary a protest from anyone. Well, except yours truly."

"So you're telling me that these Templars would kill me if they saw my markings glow. And you would know because –?"

"I know because that's what we've been taught by the Order. Before Duncan conscripted me into the Grey Wardens, I was days away from taking vows as a Templar. Now I know what you're thinking." Any comment Alexion wanted to make was cut short by Alistair's imperious _shut-up-and-listen_ gesture. "Why would one of the 'Chantry's lapdogs' abscond so easily? You don't have a right to my life story, Alexion. We aren't friends, but allies shouldn't be so wary of each other. Know this: once someone joins the Grey Wardens, his past life doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is the Blight and how to stop it. By any means necessary."

Alexion couldn't help but be surprised. The blonde Warden seemed to have more brain than he thought. Alistair's expression was grim, and the Alexion wondered if his joking airhead act was just that, an act. But then, his mistrustful nature got the best of him.

"Appealing words, but how do I know that what you said isn't just you parroting Duncan's lessons? It sure sounds a lot like what he would say. And I don't know about you, but putting the Circle and their magic under threat of death seems to be a rather foolish thing to do. Mages aren't exactly easy to kill, if the things they say about magic are true."

"Mages are still mortal, dear. We are as killable as anything else. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Those eleven words shaped how mages think and live and die. It is quite astounding, given enough thought." Alistair turned towards the kindly voice, and Alexion saw how quickly his demeanor morphed to beaming adoration.

"Hullo, Wynne! Never too busy to eavesdrop on us misbehaving children, I see."

Wynne was a petite human with silvery gray hair and dark blue eyes undimmed by age. Alexion frowned. Elder _shemlen _female were incredibly suspicious of his kind, spitting insults whenever he came too close. If it weren't for her scarlet robes, Wynne would have easily passed for any one of those doddering old cows. Wynne smiled fondly at Daveth and Jory before turning to Alexion.

"Hello, dear. You must be the new Warden Recruit. Might I know your name?"

"Alexion."

The elderly mage raised an eyebrow at his terse reply. Shamed by his unprovoked hostility, Alexion lagged behind while Alistair and Wynne led the way, their discussion turning to matters regarding Ostagar and the Blight.

"More darkspawn have been sighted near the camp two days ago. Fergus Cousland is going to lead the next scouting expedition. I will be joining him along with other Senior Enchanters. Maker knows we cannot lose that man."

Alistair was almost bent double in his attempts to hear Wynne over the constant clamor of the camp. The din of Ostagar reminded Alexion of fairs back at Denerim.

"Fergus Cousland is a sound choice. He's got enough experience not to subject his troops to too much danger and is brave enough to take risks most of noble's won't dare think of. That's what Duncan's told me, at least." Mention of the darkspawn stirred Alexion's curiosity.

"Have you fought darkspawn before, Wynne?"

To his surprise, the mage didn't reprimand him. Wynne slowed her pace, signaling Alexion to fall in step beside her. Jory and Daveth remained in the rear, deep in argument with one another.

"Yes, I have faced darkspawn before. They are foul and twisted creatures, the embodiment of man's sin and proof of the Tevinter Imperium's fatal pride. It is said that the first darkspawn were ancient magisters that forced their way into the Fade through the use of blood magic. The darkness of their hearts tainted the Golden City black, and they were cast out by the Maker and unleashed on humanity. The thought of those monsters roaming Ferelden was enough to allow the Chantry to release some of us from Kinloch Hold, if only temporarily. I can only hope that we are enough."

"Chantry propaganda, if you ask me. There must be a better explanation than the Chant of Light." Alexion couldn't stop himself from scoffing, and inwardly cursed when Wynne's eyes grew clouded.

Thankfully, it was not what he said but rather what she saw that caused the elder mage such discomfort. A large tent could be seen in the distance, its red and white coloring marking it as the army's infirmary. As if summoned by Wynne's thoughts, the wind carried screams of pain and suffering towards them. Alexion flinched, remembering bloody events that seemed to happen a lifetime ago.

"Chantry propaganda or no, it is all the explanation that can be had for now. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have somewhere I need to be." A cursory glance at Alexion, and Wynne walked towards the sounds of the injured and dying, her robes trailing behind her.

Daveth whistled appreciatively. "That is one impressive grandma." Alexion agreed wholeheartedly. A low rumble distracted the Warden Recruits from deeper thoughts.

"I think we have to postpone the tour. My friend here wants to be fed. Now." Alistair patted his stomach good-naturedly, eliciting chuckles from the three recruits.

"Alright, let's get going before the _shem _eats us."

* * *

_Wardens, _Alexion thought, _have the worst timing I've ever seen._

Just outside the mess tent adjoining that of the Wardens', a darkspawn corpse was laid out in a morbidly proper manner. A sour-faced Warden spoke to the crowd that had assembled a safe distance from the corpse. For obvious reasons, the mess tent was empty.

"There are four common types of darkspawn, each one a twisted mirror of the known Thedosian races. This type of darkspawn," A curt nod at the cadaver. ", is called a genlock. They make up the bulk of the Horde, since these 'spawn were once dwarves."

Alexion saw many among the crowd whiten considerably. Daveth was one of them. Jory, on the other hand, was muttering incoherently under his breath, the white of his eyes clear despite the smoky air. Curiosity overcame wariness, and Alexion inched forward to get a closer look of the feared monster.

Beneath the blackish blood and wickedly sharp armor, Alexion could see the mottled features of the genlock. Its skin was lined with violet spidery veins, most of the flesh already beginning to peel off its face. Its unseeing eyes were milky white, and the vacant stare of death sickened Alexion. He pushed his way out the back and retched, spilling the contents of his stomach to the ground. He was not the only one.

The grumpy Warden noticed and bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. "That's not the only thing these buggers can do. Their blood is poison, and ingesting it will either kill you outright, or worse, turn you into one of _them_. Pray to whatever gods you believe in that contracting the Taint will give you a merciful death."

Fearful whispers seethed amongst the gathered soldiers, this tidbit about Blight sickness upsetting even the bravest among them. Wiping his mouth, Alexion noticed the look Alistair gave the Warden. It was disapproving and, if he looked closely enough, a little bit angry.

"What Warden Elarion says is true." Duncan moved from within the crowd to stand next to the irritable Warden. "Yet this does not make them immortal. A well-placed strike to the vital points is all it takes to dispatch these creatures. I believe that concludes the briefing. Today's demonstration is adjourned."

Duncan's words sent a wave of calm rolling across the group. Shoulders lowered, breaths were released, and the men of Ferelden dispersed by twos and threes until the only ones left were the Wardens and Warden Recruits. Elarion looked furious.

"_Commander. _I was led to believe that today's briefing on the darkspawn fell under _my_ jurisdiction." Alexion looked between Elarion and Duncan, trying to find out the story behind the tense atmosphere between the two.

Duncan sighed. It seemed like it was his default response whenever things weren't going his way. "Elarion, I will speak with you later. For now, let the recruits get something to eat."

"Actually, Alistair's the hungry one. Though I think seeing _that_ would be enough to rid anyone of his appetite." Alexion pointed his foot at the genlock's general direction, taking care not to take too deep a breath. An embarrassed cough from the ex-Templar made Alexion do a double-take.

"You know what? I take back what I said."

* * *

Daveth didn't know if the elf was touched in the head or suicidal. He chanced another peek from behind his Templar meat shield.

And sure as cheese off a cow, Alexion was still arguing with the sodding _Hero of the River Dane_, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir himself. And looked like he was actually enjoying giving the General more than a bit of cheek.

_Probably a lil bit o' both, I reckon_.

"And what would a Warden Recruit wish to ask his king?" The General sneered as he spoke the title, making it sound like the lowest of insults. Alexion grinned before the sullen glare.

"Oh, I don't know. This and that, suppose. I'm _really_ curious on his opinion on the tax laws on barley." Somewhere behind him, Daveth heard Jory groan.

The teyrn's eyes grew stormy, the grey flashing like steel. Loghain Mac Tir was not the sort to let anyone, least of all an elf, talk back at him. He looked ready to strike down Alexion, his left hand deliberately touching the hilt of his sword. And the elf did what Daveth thought was the worst thing to do.

Alexion snorted. Loudly.

Three things happened. Loghain started to unsheathe his weapon, Alistair stepped in front of Alexion, and Daveth peed his smalls a little. Jory stepped closer a moment later, though Daveth wasn't sure if the knight wanted to restrain Alistair or help Loghain. Alexion's grin had turned feral, the ice-blue of his eyes shining with battle fever.

The teyrn moved forward before realizing that something was blocking the way to his intended target. When Loghain recognized Alistair, the anger of his edge melted away. _Huh, queer as a flying pig_. Daveth thought to himself.

"Well, at least your recruit has a backbone of his own, boy. His kind rarely do." Loghain sheathed his sword with a grunt.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Alexion all but pushed Alistair to the side, uncaring of the dirty looks the passing soldiers threw him. They would have grouped together and mobbed him in the blink of an eye, but the General was a stickler for camp discipline and they knew better than to mess with Wardens and their recruits.

"Hmph. I was simply stating a fact, elf. It still eludes me as to why my son-in-law seems so fascinated with Grey Wardens."

"A fascination you don't share, obviously." The challenge was gone from Alexion's voice, replaced with a genuine curiosity that appeared to mollify Loghain. A moment's hesitation before the General replied in his gravelly voice.

"The Wardens are impressive, but not so relevant despite what Cailan believes. I would assume that you have some experience to boast of, given your apparent fearlessness in the face of certain death?"

"Why don't you ask Urien's son, then?" A mocking light danced in the crazy elf's eyes, and Daveth wondered what Alexion could possibly mean. The look on Loghain's eyes, on the other hand, turned calculating. The teyrn's shoulders subtly shifted warily.

"I see. So it was you. I suppose you would be in the front lines with the rest of your fellows, given the – gutsiness – of your actions."

"Ha! I sure hope not!" Daveth saw a hint of a smile flit across the teyrn's lips.

"Then you are wiser than you look, elf." Loghain nodded once, and a look of understanding passed between the two. The Hero of River Dane's footsteps had not even faded entirely when Alexion was waylaid by Alistair and Jory.

"What in the Void were you thinking, elf?! Did you have any idea – any idea at all – who you just snarked at?" Jory's voice was higher than usual, the stolid warrior almost hysterical as he wrung his hands at Alexion.

"Loghain Mac Tir. Teyrn of Gwaren. Maric the Savior's right-hand man. Tactical mastermind behind the overthrow of the Orlesian Occupation. Father to the Queen and the King's godfather. Eats nails for breakfast and probably shits blades out his back end, or so the stories say."

Alistair barely repressed a chuckle at Alexion's dry reply. "And knowing all that, you still goad the man. There's crazy, and then there's wants-to-get-killed-by-a-famous-person crazy. And what's the deal with this Urien fellow? You can't be talking about –"

"Remember the part about me killing an arl's son? I'll give you a hint: He's from Denerim. And who said anything about getting killed? Besides, I wanted to know if the man measured up to the legend." Jory started to do a half-whimper, half-sputter kind of sound. Daveth was a natural skeptic – it came with the territory – but the tone of complete confidence in the blonde elf's voice was something to consider. Maybe Alexion _could_ back up all that hot air of his.

And then the mabari handler sidled up to the group, asking an impossible task. The wild-eyed glint was once again in the crazy elf's eyes.

_Nope, this one is definitely crazier than a rabid duck._

* * *

"You slaughter Vaughan Kendall and his entire honor guard, avoid getting run through by _Teyrn Loghain's_, and somehow collared _five_ Blight-infected mabari hounds without getting ripped to shreds? Either you're some sort of sneaky mage-rogue or you were born with all the luck in Ferelden!"

Alexion shrugged nonchalantly, not even deigning to answer Alistair's outburst before collecting the promised reward from the kennel master. Three silvers was a lot of money for a single day in camp, but Daveth's hands literally started itching when Alexion pulled out his money pouch.

_Maker's balls, that's a heavy-looking purse right there._

If he didn't know that the elf would sooner gut him with those twin daggers of his before letting Daveth an inch too close for comfort, the thief would have tried it as soon as Alexion's back was turned. As things were, the only chance he had of getting his paws on the elf's coin would be when Alexion was asleep or dead. Daveth almost prayed for the latter.

"C'mon, _shems_. The quartermaster won't wait forever." Alexion trotted off at a steady pace, wisely hiding where he slipped his coin. Most people kept their valuables at the predictable places, but Daveth knew the crazy elf was too street-smart to make that mistake. Following Alistair's lead, Daveth started to jog after the elf. Jory had begged off going to the quartermaster a while ago, claiming an aching belly.

_Ser knight probably had his fill of Alexion's insanity. Wish he'd stayed, though. Fella's as thick as they come._

Daveth broke off from his thoughts when he spotted a familiar sight. The brunette he had his eyes on since day one was at her usual spot, cleaning her armor with a diligence that would've made Jory cry. Daveth knew a lost cause when he saw one, the handprint fading from his face but not from his memory. But a man could only be bored for so long. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Daveth catcalled.

"Oi, love! Fancy a tumble yet?" The girl's head snapped up, eyebrows already down in anger. She would've been pretty if it weren't for that eternal scowl on her face.

"Eat shit and die, hoodlum." The words were calm and clear, as if they had been practiced for a long time. The way some of the soldiers who overheard the exchange snickered, she probably had.

"Love you too, baby." Daveth barely dodged a thrown dagger before sprinting away towards Alexion and Alistair. Who were in the middle of another head-butting session. Honestly, Daveth had had enough of the bickering between the two. He backtracked to his armor-cleaning beauty, intent to make the most of what remained of his wasted day.

* * *

"But Duncan said –"

"That we should outfit ourselves for the trip to the Korcari Wilds tomorrow. And unless Duncan explicitly said something about not stealing when I can get away with it, then I would have followed it. Orders, and all that junk."

Alistair liked to think of himself as a laidback person, but the way Alexion kept toeing lines and pushing limits grated at his nerves. The time he spent as a Templar Initiate was a lot of things, but it was not without its share of discipline. The Junior Warden scratched his carefully mussed hair. Anybody but him would know what to do with this loose cannonball. Even Gregor did a better job keeping recruits in line.

Alexion was already rummaging across the unguarded wares laid out on the quartermaster's table, the argument already done in his mind. Alistair wanted to pull the rebellious elf away from the wares. Someone else did it for him.

"Stinking knife-ear! What do you think you're doing with my merchandise? I ought to skin you alive!" The not-so-missing quartermaster, a heavyset man, was yanking Alexion by the scruff of his neck. His free hand was already reaching for the cudgel hanging loosely from his belt. Big mistake.

In a show of strength Alistair didn't think Alexion had, the elf wrenched free and whirled around. The twin longswords appeared from Maker knew where, stopping inches from both sides of the quartermaster's neck.

"Don't. Touch me." Just like with Teyrn Loghain, Alexion's mood shifted like quicksilver. The only difference was that this opponent was a bully at best: someone who wouldn't fight back when push came to shove. Shock and fear raced through the quartermaster's face, and the roar turned to a pitiful whimpering.

"Pl-please forgive me, ser. I'm just a-a poor man. I thought you were one of th-them knife-ears , see. And…" The man trailed off when Alexion turned his head to the side, turning pasty white when the pointed ears came into view.

"Mercy! M-mercy, kind elf ser! I-I didn't mean to offend. Please please oh please Maker don't kill me…" Crumpling to his knees, the quartermaster did the best impression of a lapdog. Frankly, Alistair thought he was really good at it. Apparently, so did Alexion, the weapons retreating from the groveling man's flesh.

"Bloody hell, pull yourself together." Disgust laced Alexion's voice as he watched the blubbering quartermaster recover from his emotional trauma. "I'll pretend this never happened. And I will be back with a sack filled with bloody armor, among other things. Hopefully, you'd have regained the little spine you have left and barter for a few goods of your own. Oh, by the way." Alexion took a step closer to the man, who flinched so suddenly Alistair feared he'd give himself whiplash. "I advise you forget that I took the longswords for free. Consider it an exchange for your life."

Alistair watched the elf growl menacingly at two nearby men-at-arms on his way to the Warden encampment. The smaller of the two men raised an eyebrow at Alexion's retreating back before elbowing his companion's side. "And that, Carver, is why we don't mess with blondes. Ever."

Alistair ignored the quartermaster's proclamation of heartfelt thanks as he stalked after Alexion, well-acquainted in the behavior of his ilk. Once a potential threat was gone, the quartermaster would be back to his old abrasive self. In fact, he would probably treat his victims even worse than before, if only to assuage his pride. _Not my problem_. Alistair focused instead on the mystery before him. But, he was never good at solving puzzles by himself. Alistair preferred a much simpler approach.

"What's your story, Alexion?" The elf stopped and turned around to address Alistair. Alexion's face was blank, the markings around his right eye unlined by any expression. Alistair hoped it was a sign for him to continue.

"You march into Ostagar carrying a sack filled with looted armor and a chip on your shoulder as big as Jory's gut. No offense. You're smoother than a babe's butt around Duncan and Daveth, then talk to Jory and I like we're five years old. The infirmary scares you, you puke at the sight of a dead genlock, and then the next hour you're facing down Templars, bullying quartermasters, and the man who almost single-handedly ended the Occupation. I can see that you like helping people half the time: you almost did the mabari thing for free if Daveth hadn't reminded you of the payment. But you seem to like tormenting them the other half of said time: Jory and that deserter are proof enough."

Alistair took a deep breath. Saying those many words on a small ration of air was no mean feat. Also, it seemed like he had finally gotten underneath the unflappable Alexion's skin. The elf's pale skin was tinged pink with anger, and the former Templar tensed as Alexion pinned him with a hateful stare.

"So, think you've got my number, _shemlen_? You've got the knife-ears all figured out, eh." Alexion grinned viciously, and Alistair was reminded of a fox Arl Eamon had once hunted down. "Well, fuck you and your empathy. I don't need to be understood, like I'm the poster child for a pity case. Stay out of my alley and I'll stay out of yours. _Stultus foetida gigantes_."

Alistair was confused at the use of foreign language. To the best of his knowledge, elves in Ferelden had little chance to learn anything other than the King's tongue. "What did you call me?" But Alexion was already moving away, ending the conversation with an offended finality. Alistair scratched his head, careful not to mess up his hair too badly. It seemed the direct approach was not the best idea he had this day. Maybe he should do as the very confusing elf says and 'keep to his alley', as it were.

Later, Alexion would drop in while Alistair played cards with Daveth, Jory, and the other Wardens. It was far from Satinalia, but the elf brought _things _for his fellow Warden Recruits, Duncan, and Alistair. They weren't exactly _gifts_, or so Alexion claimed. So, Alistair called them things to avoid another blow-up from the Warden Recruit. Useful _things_, they were. Duncan received a set of throwing daggers, Jory received a set of heavy chainmail that was remarkably top-notch, Daveth rubbed his hands together at his new collection of nasty-looking bombs and poisons, and Alistair was thrown a well-made yet unadorned kite shield. He wondered whether Alexion knew of his tendency to mark things with the Grey Warden insignia.

"Moral relativity." Were the only words Alexion spoke to Alistair before turning in for bed. The former Templar pondered the vague answer for a while before giving up. At least the griffin heraldry would look better on steel. Alistair _was_ tired of his worn oaken shield.

* * *

_Stultus foetida gigantes _– Tevinter for 'stupid, smelly giants.'


	11. We Little Soldiers Three

_And here I was thinking that I should abandon this fic since it's been so hard to gain momentum lately. Along comes NoGutsNoGlory with amazing reviews that do wonders on my fragile little ego. This chapter's for you!_

* * *

Everything was going well until Alexion got cut.

Instead of insisting that he lead them into the Korcari Wilds, Alistair allowed Daveth to take point. He had overheard the rogue mention to Alexion that he was born in a village not far from Ostagar, and knew his way around the area. How the elf managed to pull out these nuggets of information so effortlessly, Alistair didn't know.

Their party had moved out well before first light, following Duncan's emphasis on secrecy and haste. The only people who saw them depart were the guards stationed at the western gates, Duncan, and – oddly enough – a sober Cailan. The king was silent as he watched Alistair and company leave camp. The King of Ferelden gave the smallest of nods before Alistair entered the forbidding swamps.

As soon as the trail grew rough and grassy, the 'spawn attacked. Alistair moved forward, shouting for Daveth to form ranks with Jory and Alexion. Sadly, the three recruits had little experience in fighting as a unit. Alexion broke into a run, sprinting past Alistair to sink his swords into a genlock. Jory roared defiantly at a cluster of darkspawn, mowing down monsters left and right. Daveth fought intelligently, switching from daggers to crossbow and back again.

_Call them green all you like, but these Warden Recruits have heart._

Alistair was sure that his companions could handle themselves, cleaving his way into the mass of Tainted beasts. A cry of pain made his stomach turn cold. The genlock Alexion had engaged was crouching over the elf. The two were wrestling over one of Alexion's longswords, its pair laying forgotten in the muddy earth. A dagger was embedded in Alexion's left bicep.

"Alexion!" Alistair tried to reach the elf, but there were too many darkspawn between them. He would not reach him in time.

And then, Alexion _lost it_.

Spitting out gibberish, the elf pulled the genlock in and bit its _face _off. The darkspawn squealed in alarm, trying to wriggle away as Alexion tore its throat open. A death cry, and then it was Alexion that crouched over a dead genlock corpse. Black blood coated the elf's face, arterial gore splattering his shoulder-length blonde hair.

"Maker's blood…" Alistair's whisper could be barely heard above the din of battle. If the darkspawn decided to stab him, he doubted that he would feel it. Alexion was not finished. Dropping the longsword in his hand, he wrenched out the dagger in his arm and charged the remaining 'spawn, cursing angrily in that language Alistair did not recognize.

If there were a single hurlock in the warband that attacked them, the 'spawn would have lasted a mite longer than they actually did. Alexion was ruthless in his attacks: kicking kneecaps, stabbing groins, choking throats. Darkspawn were clearly used to people fearing them. The sight of a bloodied elf, screaming unintelligibly as he decimated them, seemed enough to unnerve the genlocks.

_It's more than enough to scare _me_ shitless._

Jory and Daveth joined Alistair on the sidelines, unwilling spectators to the macabre sight of Alexion repeatedly stabbing a dead genlock. Alistair wanted to pull the elf away from the mangled body, to shout at him to stop. But something told him that Alexion would sooner stab _them_ than let his vengeance be interrupted.

"The crazy elf's gone off the deep end, I'm telling you. Makes me nose twitch like mad seeing 'im like this." Daveth dug into his pack for poultices and began handing them off to Alistair and Jory, saving one for said crazy elf.

_"Nigrum bestiae viscera tua erue me et venare genus descendit ad cinerem sic combure tuum nidum volo voluntáte!"_

For a while, there was no sound but the wet slap of dagger against flesh. Then silence. Alexion stood shakily on his feet, his right arm loose at his side. Alistair knew the exact moment the other recruits saw the blood on his mouth and face. Their eyes bulged in unison.

"Andraste's tits, Lex! What –"

" –you _thinking_, swallowing their blood?!"

Instead of answering his fellow recruits, Alexion walked woodenly to where his longswords lay abandoned. He discarded the darkspawn's dagger and picked up the twin blades. Alistair saw the scabbards strapped to Alexion's back and was hit by a sudden realization.

"Alexion, you've never used a sword before, have you?"

Alexion's gaze swung around to meet Alistair's. The look in the elf's eyes troubled him. In his six months with the Order, Alistair had seen people in the later stages of Blight sickness, people the Grey Wardens could not afford to save. Alexion's glazed stare was the same as those unfortunate souls: a dead man's stare.

"Is that a euphemism, Warden Alistair?" Even his voice sounded dead, a flat drone lacking a single iota of emotion. Despite the signs, Alistair kept talking, intent on bringing his companion back to fighting form.

"Haha. I'm being serious here. What made you get not one, but _two_ swords from the quartermaster if you didn't know how to use them? It doesn't make any sense."

Jory and Daveth made the appropriate sounds of agreement from the back. Neither of them wanted to get close to Alexion at the moment.

Alistair saw a bit of embarrassment break through Alexion's blank mask. The elf rubbed the blood off with the sleeve of his tunic, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like 'urnerfel'.

"What? Speak up, man!"

"Garahel." And the dead man's stare was gone, replaced by an annoyed glare. "Elf from an alienage in the Free Marches. Ended the Fourth Blight. He… used twin longswords." A pause pregnant with discomfort, where Alistair prayed fervently for Daveth and Jory's to _please _not say anything. It wouldn't look good if he returned with one unhinged Warden Recruit and the two dead ones.

"So… you idolize the only elven Warden to stop a Blight. That's not so bad. When I joined the Wardens, it took me three weeks and a trashing from Elarion to stop talking about griffins and how I wanted to ride one." Alistair winced at the memory. For a fellow ex-Templar, Senior Warden Elarion wasn't exactly the nurturing type. "Anyway, if you really want to learn how to use a sword, I can teach you. After the Joining and everything else, that is."

Alexion's expression remained guarded, but Alistair thought he saw a glint of anticipation in the Warden Recruit's eyes. Gesturing at the elf's swords, Alistair continued. "For now, keep those two on your back and stick to your stab-happy pointies. Maker knows we need to be at our best." Alexion nodded, then frowned as he remembered something.

"Uh, not to be glaringly obvious or anything, but what do I do about this?" Alexion pointed to the remaining blood caking his lower face. Jory and Daveth looked expectantly at Alistair. He tried to grin, but ended up with a half-hearted grimace.

"If all goes well, the Joining will take care of that." Alexion raised an eyebrow at the answer, but did not speak the words that were on everyone's minds.

_"And if everything does _not?"

* * *

By the time they dispatched the fourth warband of darkspawn, Daveth had noticed it.

Alexion was still recovering from his latest cuckoo spree, wiping his lips once in a while. Given his worsening condition, Daveth could understand his usually perceptive fellow recruit missing it. Judging by how the elf stopped every few minutes to be sick all over a nearby bush, Daveth assumed that darkspawn blood didn't go down so well.

_Can't imagine how it tasted. Eugh, that elf is missing a lot more screws and bolts than I reckoned._

"Oi, Alistair. Got a minute?" Their resident Warden hummed in response, eyes half-shut like he was trying to listen to something only he could hear.

"Sorry for bein' paranoid and all, but these darkspawn seem to really like you." Alistair's eyes snapped open at Daveth's words and gave the rogue a lopsided grin.

"I don't look that bad, do I?" Daveth grunted, dropping the topic. He knew when people had something to hide, and it was clear as sky that the 'spawn kept rushing towards Alistair during combat. Besides, he had better things to do than interrogate a Warden. He looked back at Alexion, who was lagging even further behind.

"What're _you_ looking at, _shem_? We're wasting daylight." Daveth wanted to argue, but something near Alexion's foot caught his attention. Backtracking, Daveth knelt down and searched the surrounding foliage.

"Hey! What's with the hold-up over there?" Jory's voice drifted over far from where Alexion and Daveth were, and the thief felt a flash of resentment. Always one to keep his head in a scrap, Daveth saw things in battle a little bit clearer than most. And he didn't like it one bit. For a high and mighty knight from Highever, Jory tended to go after small fry, leaving Alistair and the sickly Alexion to do the heavy lifting.

"I found something over here. Looks like one of them Chasind trail signs." Alistair came over, leaving ser knight all by his lonesome. Serves him right, the yellow belly.

"Trail signs? What does it say?"

"Ain't exactly sure. But see these notches on the left side? The Chasind in this area left in a hurry, left quite a few of their valuables." Daveth chose not to mention the _other _markings, the ones speaking of a danger the Chasind couldn't fight against. He hoped Alistair didn't notice how his voice quavered a little

"Hm. Normally, I wouldn't be one to go against looking for shiny stuff." Alistair sent a pointed look at Alexion's huffing form. "But we don't exactly have the luxury of _time_ right now." Daveth acquiesced. He could look for the treasure after Ostagar, of course.

They continued on after that, the quiet breaking whenever Alexion would spew out the contents of his stomach. Half a day had already passed; the maps Duncan gave them the only indicator of their progress. Daveth soon spotted a group of soldiers from Ostagar.

Problem was, they were dead and hanging from a log.

"Poor bastards. That's no way to go. We need to cut them down, at least." Daveth felt the same pity in Alistair's voice and raised his crossbow, intent to shoot through the first of the thick rope that held the corpses up. The moment he squeezed the trigger, a sudden gust of wind blew against him. The bolt flew lower than expected, penetrating the dead man's skull square between the eyes.

"Oops." Daveth smiled apologetically as Alistair glared at him before following Jory's lead, climbing up the steep sides of the ravine in an attempt to reach the hanged soldiers. Alexion remained at the bottom, scrounging around for Andraste knew what.

If it weren't for his vantage point, Daveth would have never seen the hurlock sneaking behind Alistair's back.

"Behind you!"

Daveth had never seen Alistair move like that before. One second, he was lazing about with his arms crossed over his chest. The next, his sword and shield met the hurlock's greatsword. Daveth tried to climb down as fast as possible, but didn't want to risk falling and breaking his neck.

There was no need for hurry, though. Alistair matched the hurlock blow for blow, his shield turning aside every swipe of the greatsword authoritatively. The Warden even seemed to be taking his time, striking to incapacitate rather than kill. Throughout the entire bout, Alistair had remained in more or less the same spot, taking a step or two to compensate for an attack or block. Daveth realized with a start why the former Templar was doing so. A couple of yards behind him, Alexion had crumpled into a shivering heap.

By the time Daveth had reached the curled-up elf, Alistair had already finished the hurlock with a swift slice across the neck. Alexion's body contorted as spasms ran up and down his body. Daveth reached into his pouch and retrieved a small vial containing a clear liquid. Uncorking the container, he held up the elf's head and poured its contents down his throat.

"What did you give him?" Alistair's voice was worried, and Daveth could see why. Spidery veins were starting to crawl up along the elf's temples. The change came on so quickly that none of them saw it coming.

"Something to make 'im all better. You'll see, the loon's gonna be light on his feet in no time." Daveth said the words more to himself than to Alistair. True enough, Alexion sprang to his feet a few moments after ingesting Daveth's cure. His eyes shone glassily and his pale face flushed an unbecoming scarlet.

"See, good as new." Daveth's grin turned uneasy when Alexion's hands started twitching. "Er, that's not supposed to happen." Daveth grabbed hold of Alexion's shoulder and steered the elf towards what he thought was the right direction. Jory joined them a little while after. Apparently, he had stayed up with the hanged men once the hurlock showed itself. As much as Daveth wanted to chastise the knight for abandoning them _yet again_, he bit his tongue.

If he kept quiet and ignored Alistair's questions, he wouldn't have to admit that he gave Alexion a mild dose of Deathroot extract.

* * *

Alexion was, for the lack of a better word, drunk.

Even though he had spent his entire life in the underbelly of Denerim, Alexion had never tasted any of its forbidden fruit. It could have been his father's teetotaler ways, his mother's severe discipline, or a bit of both. The elf had never drunk a pint of ale, all the while dealing with much more dangerous substances later in his life. So, the only way he could describe his feeling was _drunk_.

True, his body felt as heavy as someone who was incredibly inebriated. But it was for wholly different reasons. Alexion's mind was on fire, gears spinning at a feverish pace. This made his physical senses sluggish and slovenly in comparison. Thoughts and images sped pass the forefront of his consciousness, destined only to be glimpsed and never properly understood.

Aside from that, Alexion moved in flashes of memory. The elf concentrated, trying to retrieve a useful recollection from the snapshots of things recently past. He remembered laughing as wolves and darkspawn tore each other apart. He remembered Daveth shouting at Alistair over a box filled with pretty rocks and a shiny pendant. He remembered fighting against a darkspawn that shot green blobs of poison out of a stick.

The way Alistair made the green blobs disappear with a shiny flaming sword was nice to look at. He should teach Alexion how to do that sometime.

Alexion vaguely recalls fighting against a very tall darkspawn with a sword bigger than he was. He laughed at how Daveth threw a glass filled with red sparkles at its face. The sparkles turned into liquid waves of scarlet that almost washed over Alexion and Alistair. It tickled a bit and he wanted to play in it, but Jory pulled him back, shouting about a bomb or some such.

Alexion didn't like Jory that much.

Overall, Alexion felt pretty good about himself until they reached the Warden outpost. Thinking back, weren't they supposed to get someone's blood? Or was it spit? He never could tell the difference. Alexion spotted something moving in the underbrush and went to investigate. When he saw the gold in her eyes, Alexion felt the drunkenness wash away.

It _hurt_.

The sensory overload was too much. Alexion sunk to his knees as awareness flooded his mind. The burns on his face and arms from Daveth's fire bomb. The ache that came with wielding his daggers for too long a time. The vial of darkspawn blood hanging from the pendant he swiped from the lockbox. The Taint roaring in his blood.

"Be still. 'Twill pass soon enough." The voice was gentle, but there was a deadliness hiding under it that even Alexion – in his sorry state – could sense. Opening his eyes proved to be most difficult thing he had done all day, but the sight was worth it.

Alexion had seen more beautiful women, but none proved to be as exotic as this creature. With her porcelain white skin and raven-black hair, she belonged among the nobility of Ferelden and not in the gloomy dark of the Korcari Wilds. But it was the eyes that drew him in, eyes that were the color of purest gold and colder than it by far. Alexion's eyes strayed to the gnarled walking stick she held in her hand, understanding what it meant even as Alistair and the others ran up towards them.

_Mage_.

"Hello, little man. My name is Morrigan."

* * *

_Nigrum bestiae viscera tua erue me et venare genus descendit ad cinerem sic combure tuum nidum volo voluntáte!_ - Tevinter for 'Black beasts I will hunt your kind down and rip out your guts burn your nest to ashes yes I will I will I will!'


	12. Words And Wills

_Woah. So this is the result of being stir-crazy. Trololol. Anyways, here's another chapter of ToTME. The deviance from the normal storyline of DA:Origins starts here! Hopefully._

* * *

Alistair's nose kept itching like mad.

Back when he was still a Templar Initiate, he had been told of how some Templars were especially sensitive towards magic. Average Templars on the hunt for apostates had to maintain constant vigilance for a thrum from the lyrium in their blood. But for those Templars with exceptional perception, the reaction to magic usually manifested physically.

A great number of these 'Fade hounds' claimed that they were able to taste the magic emanating from an apostate, with corresponding tastes for the many kinds of magic. An unlucky few reacted in unsavory fashion: breaking out in hives, vomiting, and – in a single documented case – breaking wind.

Alistair was stuck somewhere in the middle, able to sense the proximity and strength of someone's magic by how itchy his nose was. He had discovered his talent thanks to the resident Fereldan Grey Warden mage. When Duncan paired him up with Aris, it was in order for Alistair to lose the prejudice almost all Templars have with mages. Little did the Warden-Commander know that Alistair was indeed one of the few 'good' Templars or that the blonde Warden was also a 'Fade hound'.

This resulted in quite a few nose-picking incidents that Alistair would rather forget. Luckily for him, Aris was a learned scholar in obscure mage-related phenomenon. Upon learning the cause of his nose itching, Alistair was subjected to weeks of physical conditioning that cured him of the compulsion to pick his nose.

Feathers, however, would never fail to inspire a deep-seated terror from that point onwards.

Regardless of that, Alistair did not need an itching nose to see that the woman before him was an apostate mage. The walking stick made from ancient gnarled swamp tree and the tattered rags of a robe were proof enough. There were only two people who would traipse around the Wilds dressed like so: native shamans or mad folk.

_Perhaps she's both. That would make her doubly certified for traipsing._

The apostate did not take notice of them till she was done speaking with Alexion. The murmured conversation between the two troubled Alistair. What did an apostate mage have to say to a drugged elf? The woman waved her hands over Alexion's wounds, healing energy knitting together skin and muscle.

Only when she was satisfied with her work did the apostate turn her attention towards them. Daveth caught her attention first, since he couldn't seem to keep the leering to a minimum.

"Well, what have we here? Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones have long since been cleaned?" Her golden eyes shift lazily to Jory. "Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" At the mention of prey, a hungry look came over the witch's face. Jory flinched away, and Alistair could not blame him. There was something otherworldly about this creature, something sharp and menacing that put him ill at ease.

Their awkward silence seemed to irritate the witch. "What say you, Templar? Scavenger or intruder?" Alistair was startled when the witch addressed the question to him.

"How did you know I was a Templar?" The witch shifted her eyes downward. Following her gaze, Alistair saw that his nervousness had given him away. Blue flames danced around the palm of his hands, testament to his powers.

"Oh. Well, that was stupid of me." The witch nodded in assent as she gave Alistair a condescending once-over. Annoyed, Alistair snapped at her. "_We_ are not what you think we are, by the way. We're from the Order of the Grey Wardens. And as far as I see it, _you_ are in _our _lands."

The apostate laughed, then. It would have been a pretty laugh if it weren't so mocking. The same could very well be said of her voice too. "You invoke a name that means naught to the natives of this swamp! I suggest you change your tone while you still can."

Alistair stiffened at the implied threat. "Wardens, on your guard!" Unlike the first time they engaged the 'spawn, his commands were followed. Daveth and Jory dropped their packs and readied their weapons. Alistair did the same, mind racing on how to get Alexion away from the apostate before harm befell him. The woman laughed yet again, this time more amused than insulting.

"Such ferocity! Do you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Yes. Swooping is _bad_." Alistair spoke through clenched teeth. He wanted to joke around and lift the tension in the air. But the way the apostate seemed to talk down on them grated on his nerves. At the woman's feet, Alexion chuckled weakly before being gripped in another round of convulsing coughs.

The woman eyed Alexion gingerly, as if afraid of being infected by Blight sickness. Before Alistair could speak, Daveth jumped in with an observation they didn't really need.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She'll turn us all into toads and – Oof!" Thankfully, the rogue was silenced by Jory's elbow before he said something that really offended the mage. The woman smirked in response, clearly basking in Daveth's superstitious fear.

"So narrow-minded. 'Tis expected from one with Chasind blood." Ignoring Daveth's paling face, the woman spoke to Alistair once again. "Templars-turned-Wardens are not frightened little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."

"My name is Alistair. This is Ser Jory of Highever. The blabbermouth beside him is Daveth." Alistair didn't think that the rogue could turn any paler. Daveth did, his face starting to look the color of undercooked porridge.

"Don't tell her our names!" Daveth hissed as he wrung his hands. "She can curse you if she knows our names!" Alistair noticed Daveth lose his Denerim accent as he became more flustered, the slick intonation turning into the brogue of one of the Chasind.

"I've had enough of this nonsense. Daveth, hold your tongue! Witch, tell us your name and where the treaties are." The sight of Jory standing up to the woman would have been impressive if Alistair missed the shaking of the knight's hands.

"Oh, very well. I too tire of such games. You may call me Morrigan. And as for the treaties…" Morrigan smiled, as if taunting them with the promise of what they seek. Alistair felt a growing suspicion gnaw on the edge of his thoughts. Of course. Why else would she be here?

"You stole them, didn't you? You're some sort of sneaky… witch-thief!" Even as he said it, Alistair knew that the words must have sounded weak and foolish.

_Okay. Not my best material, but still!_

"Charming." It seemed as though Morrigan wanted to say a few more choice words. Fortunately, their sickly elf came to their rescue.

"Morrigan, was it?" Alexion gave the witch a charming smile, but the deliberate way he spoke did not disguise the pain that Alistair knew he was feeling. "Forgive the abruptness of my companions. However, they do make a solid point. We need those treaties as soon as possible, you see…" The elf's voice soon turned into a rasp as he tried to fight back a particularly violent cough.

"On the brink of death or worse, and still being polite. I like you." Though the words were spoken lightly, there was no trace of humor in Morrigan's voice. Being himself, Alistair could not resist a well-placed quip.

"I'd be worried if I were you, Alexion. First it's 'I like you', then _zap!_you get turned into a frog." The way Alexion and Morrigan gave simultaneous eye rolls did not bode well for the elf.

"Such childish nonsense. Come then. If you desire those treaties of yours so much, my mother has them." A raised eyebrow at the milky-white of Alexion's eyes. "And I suggest you carry the little man as well. 'Tis clear that time is not in your favor and I do not wish to dally."

* * *

As a child, Jory loved stories.

His father earned the title of knight by serving Teyrn Bryce Cousland in the Rebellion, and made sure his son would never forget the sacrifices made long before he was born. The history lessons sparked something in young Jory, a thirst for adventures where good defeat evil and the hero gets the girl. His indulgent mother made sure that Jory would never run out of stories to tell, but knew the danger in one-sided tales.

One of the many bedtime stories she told her young boy was of Flemeth Elstan.

Seeing the wrinkled old woman dressed in dirty rags, Jory instantly disbelieved her claim as the Witch of the Wilds. In the stories, Flemeth was a lady of incredible beauty. With her hair as black as midnight and her eyes the color of the midday sun, men from every corner travelled towards Highever to catch a glimpse of her magnificence. Jory caught Morrigan's eye and tried to rethink his opinion.

_If she really _is _Flemeth's daughter, maybe her claims hold true. After all, apostate or no, the girl's a damn fine sight._

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's eyes wide, either way, one's a fool." The hag who called herself Flemeth looked at Jory the entire time, as if reading the inside of his mind.

From where he stood carrying Alexion, Daveth made a choked noise as if he wanted to say something. Jory threw a stern glare his way. The thief seemed to become more and more senseless the farther they went into the Wilds. At least _he_ had the sense not to let his wits run away with him. Flemeth kept staring at him, grey eyes boring into Jory's with an intensity that was not entirely sane.

"Smart. Irrelevant in the larger scheme of things. But smart nevertheless." Jory felt a prick of anger at being dismissed so easily. He had learned long ago that he was no hero, but to call him irrelevant? Unbidden, Jory's hand crept slowly towards the greatsword on his back. This wretch had no right to demean him like that!

**_It is not my place to decide such things. Peace, young one_**.

The voice that spoke within his thoughts sounded like Flemeth's, with a darker and deeper echo that belonged to something larger and more powerful than any human had right to be. Jory wanted to scream, but the voice compelled him into submission, brushing aside his will like it was nothing.

**_Be still and listen. Repeat my words later if need be. That will be your greatest purpose.  
_**

With a booming chuckle, the voice retreated from Jory's consciousness. If the knight thought that he had any chance of escape, he would have run away as fast as his legs could carry him. But his gut told him that defying the voice would be met with summary obliteration. So Jory listened and prayed for mercy.

He did not notice Alexion speak haltingly to the creature in mortal skin. Jory listened to her voice and it alone. "Such manners for one dying of the Taint. These things are always in the last place you'd look for. Like stockings!" Flemeth – and Jory now knows that she truly _is _Flemeth – cackles wildly.

A buzz where he assumes Alexion speaks, and then it is Flemeth replies. "Perhaps I am an old woman with a taste for moldy parchments." Jory flicks his gaze at the treaties in Flemeth's hand before locking in on the witch's lips. If he wanted to survive this ordeal, every iota of attention must go to her. "Perhaps I am something more. Or less." She stares at Jory for a few moments, and he sees everything now.

Madness. Apathy. The very abyss itself.

"Oh, how she dances under the moon! Ha!" Jory braced himself for the Words, but they do not come.

"Perhaps the threat is more, and they realize less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing. Or they realize nothing!" Jory inhales shakily. It seemed as if Flemeth wished to toy with him for a little while longer. He relaxes his guard.

The Words come like the roar of ten thousand tormented voices.

**By wretched half-crown will beauty be born**

**Seven will rise, six we shall scorn**

**The river is tainted**

**While marked one betrayed**

**Hand ever raised cut off from the fray**

**A diamond cracked we dare not mend**

**The dust bathed in blood will surely ascend**

**Of angry betrayer we have no use**

**The choice must be made from the ones they abuse**

**A chain from the fourth, broken not bent**

**The choice will not bow until it is spent**

**Endings abound, one ending is clear**

**One shall be lost in three held most dear**

**Three is the keystone, three is the charm**

**Three brought together, three saved from harm**

* * *

_Dun dun dunnnn. Whatever does the Prophecy of Asha'bellanar mean? Well, better pray that I get to the ending then. :)) Next up, the Joining!  
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	13. A Silent Grove

_Another chapter of ToTME, folks! Sorry for the late update, had an annoying fever that just wouldn't go away. Here's a sneak peek of some Grey Warden perks. Not to worry, the best part of the Taint hasn't even been unveiled yet! I'm not satisfied with just the 'sensing darkspawn' and 'increased stamina' gifts, so expect more abilities to manifest in this story. Irregularities, how I love them!_

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"We shouldn't have allowed that child to take command of this Joining."

Duncan sighed through his nose as Elarion went on and on about how unfit their Junior Warden was to lead. It was tiring the first time, and grew all the more wearisome through repetition. However, he could not say anything against his brother Warden. It was Elarion's suggestion – some would say demand – to have another Warden tail Alistair's party into the Korcari Wilds.

Ironic that it was the ex-Templar's lack of faith in Alistair's ability that would save his first command from disaster.

"It is past time for Alistair to learn how to lead others, Senior Warden Elarion. What better way to start than with those soon to be under his leadership?" If Duncan were younger and a bit more impatient, he might have throttled Elarion for the sneer thrown his way.

"Ha. That bumbling fool couldn't lead his way into a camp brothel, much less out of a wild marsh like this."

Duncan couldn't help but frown at his second-in-command. In the beginning, he had expected that Elarion would take young Alistair under his wing, since it had been quite some time since the Order had acquired another Templar-Warden. Instead, Elarion seemed to harbor a genuine hatred towards his younger counterpart. The bullying came to such a point that Duncan was forced to reassign Alistair to another Senior Warden and subject Elarion to disciplinary action.

The older Templar-Warden had been shaking for weeks from lyrium deprivation.

_It was my fault for being so naïve in the first place. The only thing these two have in common is their Templar training._

Elarion was the second son of a minor bann from the northern parts of Ferelden who willingly abandoned the Templar Order to join the Grey Wardens. Perhaps he thought that it would be a chance for a glory that Chantry warrior-priests cannot hope to attain. But once he had realized that the Order of the Grey in Ferelden was an insignificant cog in the greater scheme of things, Elarion became embittered and lost almost all faith in the Order. If it weren't for the fact that it was his stipend as a Senior Warden that allowed him to satisfy his need for lyrium, he would have deserted at the first unguarded moment.

Duncan, as much as he wanted to cut the disaffected Templar-Warden loose, could not afford to do so. Elarion had a gift for command, easily handling the herculean task of keeping a small organization like theirs running on the smallest of budgets. The two were stuck with each other, no matter how strong their mutual distaste would become.

"We find out soon if boy handles things, yes?" The stout figure of Gregor materialized between the two men. The Anders had managed to catch up with the two Fereldans, slowed down by their argument. The trio halted their brisk run when a sharp whistle issued from their left.

"_Schatten_, you find meeting place?" It was Gregor who spotted the fourth member of their search party. Despite being a warrior more used to the roaring sounds of a tavern rather than the wilderness, Gregor had surprisingly sharp senses.

The shadows of a nearby canopy melted away to reveal an elf clad in leather armor. A sword was strapped to his hip and a bow of elegant craftsmanship slung across his back. Senior Warden Tamarel nodded towards the direction of the rendezvous point. Without wasting another breath, the four Wardens sprang into motion.

Normally, it took a whole day's march to traverse this certain area of the Korcari Wilds. For a lightly equipped group such as the one Alistair led, a half-day might suffice. The Warden-Commander and his four Senior Wardens blazed through the swamp in a matter of hours. As the eldest among the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Duncan and his men had augmented physical stamina that surpassed the average Grey Warden. As they ran at breakneck speed, their boots pulled out huge chunks of dirt. From a distance, it looked like the Grey Wardens were on horseback.

It was only a matter of time before the space in which Duncan ran grew almost claustrophobic in smallness. With another spurt of effort, the Warden-Commander launched himself to the nearest tree branch. Not far behind him was Tamarel, slipping and swinging through withered trees with cat-like grace. Elarion and Gregor stayed below, weighed down by their heavy armor.

For a moment, Duncan allowed himself to revel in a rare taste of freedom. The mantle of Warden-Commander was not an easy one to bear. For someone who had lived like Duncan had, the responsibility was stifling. A few more seconds of flitting across the swamp tree were the most he could afford. Soon, Duncan of Val Royeaux, thief extraordinaire, was gone. In his place was Warden-Commander Duncan of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, austere and stern.

"Tamarel, see if higher ground can give us a better vantage point."

The dark-haired elf shook his head and pointed a solitary finger to the west. Following his Senior Warden's finger, Duncan saw where Alistair and his party were bogged down. The grove was silent and empty, but there was something that made the Warden-Commander's skin crawl in trepidation. Duncan signaled Elarion and Gregor to remain hidden as he and Tamarel leapt into the clearing from above. Daveth's startled squawk almost made him smile.

The rest of what he saw, however, squashed all happy thoughts ruthlessly.

Daveth and Alistair looked like they had taken a rather brutal beating: faces gaunt with exhaustion; armor dented all over; weapons dulled to the point of breaking. Despite this, determination filled their eyes, the fighting instinct giving strength where physical prowess could not. Ser Jory was not as scarred as the others, but his eyes carried a haunted look that betrayed a shattered spirit. The knight twitched uncontrollably as he scribbled away on a piece of blank vellum. He did not even notice Duncan's appearance.

Alexion had the worst of it. The blonde elf was lying face-up on a patch of dry dirt with his eyes shut, clothed only in his boots and trousers. A pair of twin longswords and a dagger of elaborate design lay atop a nearby pile of armor. Calling out Elarion and Gregor with a sharp whistle, Duncan addressed the Warden he had assigned to Alistair.

"Aris, report." The smooth-faced mage remained kneeling by Alexion's side, engrossed with the elf for some reason. Before Duncan could call his attention, he replied.

"The recruits led by Junior Warden Alistair have completed their tasks admirably, Warden-Commander. There was a bit of disunity midway through the mission, but I believe it could be attributed to racial differences and cultural disparity. A small thing to rectify. Junior Warden Alistair has also retrieved the Grey Warden treaties as well." Aris eyed Alistair momentarily. The blonde Warden squirmed underneath the mage's inquisitive gaze.

_Odd_. Alistair was not the sort to keep secrets from his superiors. To do so now, during a Joining that seemed to be out of the ordinary, was troubling.

"I… cannot get the details out of Junior Warden Alistair. I believe he would like to speak to you regarding this matter, Warden-Commander." Aris blinked owlishly at the approaching forms of Elarion and Gregor. He was so absorbed in his report that he looked as if he had failed to sense other Wardens aside from Tamarel and Duncan. "Ah. Careless of me. Moving on, there is an abnormality I would like to present to you, Warden-Commander."

Duncan moved closer to Aris as he sent his three Senior Wardens away to secure the area. When he caught sight of the elf, a spike of alarm went through the Warden-Commander, alongside an oppressive pressure that could only be _it_. "Is that–?"

"Blight sickness. A common enough strain, if my observations do not fail me. Take note of the whiteness of the eyes, the spidery veins around the face and neck, the subtle stench of rot, the–"

"I am familiar with the symptoms of Blight sickness, Warden Mage Aris." Duncan snapped in irritation. Aris' tendency for rambling did not normally get on his nerves, but he could not afford to frighten the remaining Warden Recruits. Thankfully, Daveth and Alistair were out of earshot in their efforts to calm down a ranting Jory.

"Warden-Commander, how long has it been since their mission has started?" Defiance and his own bit of irritation colored Aris' usually bland monotone. "Even if Warden Recruit Alexion had been infected at the very threshold of the Korcari Wilds, it does not make any sense that his symptoms would be this advanced. Or that he would be comatose." Looking down on the prone recruit, Duncan grunted. So he was.

"Someone as Tainted as this needs to have been exposed to the Blight for at least three to four days. This is _highly_ irregular, Warden-Commander."

Duncan was taken aback. How could he have missed that. Alexion's exposure should have numbered by mere hours, and even then the Taint should not have manifested so early. "This is indeed irregular, Aris. What do you propose to do, then?"

"With your authorization, Warden-Commander, I believe that it would be in our best interests if we hold a Joining here and now. Aberrations such as these should be documented under safe conditions as soon as possible. The Joining will eliminate any risk of death or further–"

"We are _not _going to hold the Joining here, _mage_." Duncan cursed inwardly. Aris had drawn in him so completely that he had failed to notice the return of his Senior Wardens. "There is already a designated place for Joinings in Ostagar. I will not allow the secrecy of the ritual be jeopardized for the sake of some knife-ear–!" The sound of a blade hissing out of its sheath alerted the Wardens.

"They…will Join. Now." Tamarel's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it rang throughout the silent grove. Tensing at the blade in the elf's grip, Elarion snarled as he drew his mace and shield.

"Senior Wardens! Stand down!" Duncan threw all the authority he had into the short command, knowing full well that Tamarel and Elarion were among the most stubborn of his men. The brief hesitation it caused was long enough for Gregor to disarm Elarion and Alistair to block Tamarel's way with insistent pleas. Daveth stood dumbstruck at the malice in the air. Jory remained crouched over his vellum, scribbling away.

Only when the weapons were put away and tensions eased did Duncan turn his attention back to Aris. "Prepare for the Joining as fast as you can. I will supervise as Alistair will preside." Once the mage shuffled away with the vials of darkspawn blood hidden under the folds of his robes, Duncan met the eyes of his Senior Wardens. "Choose your Warden Recruits, men."

Elarion steps behind Daveth, grimacing as the thief flinched away. An unheard threat later, Daveth stepped to the center of the grove as still as death. Gregor gently pulled at Jory's arm until the Highever knight stood beside the Denerim local. The Anders loomed over the large Fereldan, whispering words of encouragement. Tamarel pulled the comatose Alexion to his feet with a grunt. Before bringing his fellow elf in between Jory and Daveth, Duncan caught Tamarel chanting a song in elvish.

Duncan remembered the waiting before the start of the ceremony. He remembered the presence of those long-dead Wardens bearing down on him. As he surveyed the newest of his sacrificial lambs, he could not help but feel pity for what fate would lie before them. Like all the other times he caught himself thinking second thoughts, he repeated a mantra that had steeled him ever since his first days as a Grey Warden.

_Whatever means necessary_.

Aris shuffled to Duncan's side, the silver Joining goblet held expertly out of sight. Steam rose from the freshly brewed Joining potion, and Duncan hoped that none of the Warden Recruits would be able to smell the foul vapors. He saw Daveth gulp nervously, whatever Elarion said enough to scare him into silence. He saw Jory's eyes dart to and fro, searching for a way of escape. He saw the rise and fall of Alexion's chest, too faint to bode any good.

_Maker, give us strength_.

"At last, we come to the Joining ritual. This is the final step for you three to become Grey Wardens. Since the first days of our Order, we partake of the blood of the darkspawn. Only by ingesting the blood of our enemies and mastering the Taint, can we truly defeat them. This is one of our darkest secrets. This is the secret to our strength." No outbursts or protests from the two conscious Warden Recruits. Duncan didn't know if that spoke well or ill of them. Somewhere to his left, Alistair intoned the words that accompanied every Joining.

"Join us, brothers and sisters." Duncan saw Daveth and Jory straighten their spines at the sound of Alistair's voice. Elarion was wrong. Command ran in Alistair's veins. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant." Gregor and Elarion put their hands on the hilts of their weapons, readying themselves in case of desertion. "Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn." Alexion groans softly as Tamarel adjusts his grip to grab onto the hilt of his sword. "And should you perish, know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten. And that one day, we will join you." Taking the goblet from Aris, Alistair hands the death sentence to its first victim.

"Daveth. From this moment forth, you are called to become a Grey Warden." Like so many men before him, Daveth of Denerim dies. The Taint claims his life like a babe greedy for the breast of its mother.

Ser Jory of Highever cries out wordlessly, the sight of a dead comrade destroying any hope of redemption from his self-imposed insanity. Elarion's mace bashes his head in. A moment later, Gregor bisects the dead knight with a mighty swing of his axe.

"You were too slow, Anders." A malignant gleam in Elarion's eyes sent a chill down Duncan's spine. How could a sane man enjoy the slaughter of those who only wished to live? Judging by how Alistair was grinding his teeth, the young Warden thought along the same lines.

_Two down. Pray the last one survives._

Despite his sentiments, Duncan the Thief agreed with Duncan the Warden-Commander. It would be a waste to exert so much effort in recruitment without reaping any benefit. With the addition of Alexion Tabris, the Ferelden Grey Wardens would be twenty-seven in number, a measly amount in the face of the Blight. Every sword arm would count, no matter how bloody the path.

_When did I become so cold?_

"Alexion. From this moment forth, you are called to become a Grey Warden." Darkest darkness passes through a sleeping elf's lips, and breaths were held. Fear, hope, anticipation, even bloodlust. Time stood still as Alistair emptied a cup filled with mindless evil into the throat of another victim of fate.

While the screams of a dying man ripped apart the uneasy silence of the lonely clearing, Duncan thought that he saw the silhouette of a woman vanishing into a nearby canopy. Maybe he was imagining things. If he were going mad, he did not care. He had gone through too much. He was tired. So _tired_.

"Welcome to the Grey Wardens, brother Alexion."

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_Schatten _– Anderfel for 'shadow'


End file.
